Paxman: Sooooooo, Boris, what have you got to say for yourself after four years as Mayor of London? Boris: Well, golly, hasn't it been fun? I've had such a jolly time appearing on the telly and and meeting people and going to receptions. London really is a great city, and I've enjoyed every second of running it. Paxman: Yeeeeees, well, you haven't really been running London at all, have you? You hired a bunch of special advisers to do that. Do you think they've been worth the money you've been paying them? Boris: Oh absolutely yes, every last million. I'd never have had time to chair Have I Got News For You otherwise. And I must say I think Roman Abramovich has been great as Head of Affordable Housing, and Vinny Jones was an inspired choice as Chair of Culture, and Jeffrey Archer has been excellent as Director of Doing Things More Cheaply. Paxman: What about crime. You made a big fuss about crime when you got elected in 2008, telling Londoners you'd bring the figures down. What went wrong? Boris: Well, you know, a Mayor only has a certain degree of control over whether his citizens decide to stab one another or not. Free will and consumer choice and all that. And those online crime maps we brought in, how were we to know they'd depress house prices even further. Honest, I had lots of good ideas about cutting crime, but some thieving toerag stole my briefcase on the tube. Paxman: Ahhhhh yes, transport. What are your priorities for the next four years? Boris: Crossrail, yes, er, that's something I'd really like to get a chance to finish. I know I still haven't got the funding yet but, you know, the forms were jolly complicated and I didn't quite fill them in properly. In the meantime, my cut-price petrol loan scheme has proved terribly successful, helping ordinary Londoners to fill their Landrovers more cheaply. So, cripes, it's not all bad news. Paxman: If you're elected again as Mayor, will you be attending the Olympic opening ceremony in the summer? Boris: Yes, I will, of course! There's nothing I love more than a day trip to Paris. I think outsourcing the 2012 Games to France has been a financial triumph for Londoners, and shows my continuing commitment to value for money. Paxman: And if you win tomorrow? Boris: I've planned a big piss-up in a brewery, I think.
Paxman: Ken Livingstone, defeated ex-Mayor of London, aren't you getting a bit old for this sort of thing? Ken: Sorry I'm late, but Boris won't let me use my Freedom Pass on the buses before 9am. Paxman: Londoners have already rejected your snivelling weaselling once. What makes you think you deserve the reins of the capital again? Ken: Boris has removed hundreds of my best friends from various jobs running London, people like Race Advisers and Equality Risk Managers and Community Stakeholder Executives, and they're missing out on a share of the capital's wealth. I can't slip these people money if I'm not in power. Paxman: But you had eight years as Mayor last time. Surely if you couldn't get things done in eight years, then they weren't worth doing? Ken: Well, obviously I'm disappointed I never eradicated all the pigeons from Trafalgar Square. I've got sackloads of poisoned birdseed and vicious killer falcons ready this time. And I also had big plans to demolish the whole of Southwark and replace everything with 50-storey skyscrapers, but sadly that never quite came to pass. Paxman: Su-urely, as Boris has shown, it's better to spend less on politically correct fripperies and to cut everyone's council tax instead? Especially with interest rates now at 20%. Ken: Oh I disagree. I really miss selecting a random ethnic group and then splashing out hard-earned taxes on a special day's celebrations in Trafalgar Square. If I'd been re-elected I had big plans for Polesday. Paxman: Some people were extremely surprised in 2009 when you started writing a twice-weekly column for the Evening Standard. How do you live with your conscience? Ken: Look Jeremy, it's very simple. When Andrew Gilligan left the paper to become the BBC's ethics correspondent, the Standard suddenly had a vacancy for someone to write vicious spiteful copy attacking the Mayor. I was only too glad to step in. Paxman: One last question. Do you promise to give up your day job if you're re-elected Mayor tomorrow? Ken: My current role as Vice President of Venezuela is merely ceremonial, and wouldn't get in the way of running London. It didn't last time, anyway.
Paxman: Are youstill here? Brian: Er, sorry. Paxman: And close the door behind you.
That much-loved English children's novel, The Wind In The Willows, was first published 100 years ago this year. Kenneth Grahame's classic tale from the riverbank was inspired by the wildlife of the Thames Valley, and made its unassuming author his fortune. A century on, visitors to Henley's River and Rowing Museum can walk through a delightful permanent exhibition retelling the story, complete with 3D models, creepy woodland and audio wands. I had the whole exhibit to myself, and thought it quite charming for children of all ages. In celebration of the centenary, I thought I'd treat you to this special out-of-copyright extract...
THE POLL IN THE WILLOWS
Ratty had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little City Hall with a brush and a pail of whitewash. Change was moving in the air above, penetrating even his dark and lowly little hideaway with its spirit of divine discontent. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said 'Bother!' and 'O blow!' and also 'Hang spring elections!' and bolted out of the office without even waiting to put on his coat.
As he meandered aimlessly along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed gravy train. The Rat was bewitched, and dreamily he fell to considering what a nice snug dwelling-place it would make. As he gazed, something orange seemed to twinkle down in the heart of it; a grave copper face, quite easily overlooked, with lumpen ears and silver silky hair. It was the Mole! The two animals stood and regarded each other cautiously.
'Would you like to come over to my side?' enquired the Rat presently. 'Believe me, my young friend, there is NOTHING--absolute nothing--half so much worth doing as simply messing about in politics.'
'Look out, Rat!' cried the Mole suddenly, remembering his police training. Glancing back, they saw a small cloud of dust, with a dark centre of energy, advancing on them from the direction of Henley at incredible speed, while from out of the dust a faint 'Poop-poop!' wailed like an uneasy animal in pain. But it was too late. The pair were struck full tilt by the amphibious vehicle, and were cast aside into the ditch, their heels in the air.
They returned to the carriage-drive of City Hall to find a shiny new Routemaster, of enormous expense, painted a bright red (Toad's favourite colour), standing in front of the entrance. As they neared the door it was flung open, and Mr. Toad, arrayed in goggles, cap, gaiters, and enormous overcoat, came swaggering down the ramp, drawing on his gauntleted gloves.
'Glorious, stirring sight!' murmured Toad. 'The poetry of motion! The REAL way to travel! The ONLY way to travel! O bliss! O poop-poop! O my! O my!'
'What are we to do with him?' asked the Mole, undecidedly. 'Nothing at all,' replied the Rat firmly. 'He has got a new craze, and it always takes him that way, in its first stage. He'll bluster like that for days now, like a buffoon walking in a happy dream, quite useless for all practical purposes. Never mind him. Let's go and see what there is to be done about the bendy buses.'
They had not proceeded very far on their way, however, when there was a pattering of feet behind them, and Toad caught them up and thrust a paw inside the elbow of each of them; then nosed ahead to claim victory. Then he bowed, coughed twice, and, letting himself go, with uplifted voice he sang, to the enraptured audience that his imagination so clearly saw,
The four by fours are tooting and the bankers are saluting, And the foxhunters they are shooting and the motor-cars are hooting, For it's Toad's— great— day!
He sang this very loud, with great unction and expression; and when he had done, he sang it all over again.
When Boris Johnson isn't canvassing to become Mayor of London, he has a day job as Member of Parliament for Henley. But, I wondered, does being MP for Henley provide any relevant experience for taking the reins of the capital? Would throbbing multicultural London (population seven and a half million) be a better place if it were more like genteel riverside Henley-on-Thames (population ten thousand)? So I headed upriver to Henley at the weekend to find out. And what do you know, I think Boris has it sorted.
Environment: Henley is genuinely charming. A historic riverside town with half-timbered cottages, leafy water meadows and an uncloned high street. Rather like London would be if you wiped out everywhere that was a bit Hackney and replaced it with something rather more Richmond. I think Boris would approve. Air quality: Well done Boris, there's very little air pollution in Henley. Every breath of Thames Valley air was fresh and invigorating. If only the grimy smog I normally get to breathe in London was so refreshing. Economy: Is there any surer sign of a thriving economy than a queue of open topped sports cars with personalised numberplates waiting to enter a rowing club car park? Given that half the City's bankers appear to either live or play in Boris's constituency, I suspect he'd be ideally suited to running their place of work too. Crime: At no point during my trip to Henley did I feel under any threat whatsoever from mindless violence. Admittedly I did see one mother wielding a sharp knife in front of a child during a picnic, and the price of an ice cream in Mill Meadows was highway robbery, but Boris clearly has crime under control. Sport: There are no disaffected youth on the streets of Henley. That's because they're all on the river instead, sculling and stroking while some social worker with a bike stands on the towpath yelling instructions at them through a megaphone. Even the very littlest are busy dragon boating. Why can't London's youngsters do the same? Housing: What London needs is more detached villas with big gardens sweeping down to the banks of the Thames, each with their own little boatshed, just like what Henley has. Affordable housing? Pah, that's only for the au pair. Festivals: An annual regatta, with exclusive Stewards Enclosure and braying Pimms-sipping punters, would be a more than worthy replacement for Ken's regular series of ethnic celebrations in Trafalgar Square. Culture: Boris presides over such cultural highlights as DustySpringfield'sgrave, a museum of rowing boats and an annual arts festival featuring Lesley Garrett and the Gipsy Kings. Isn't entertainment of this calibre what every Londoner wants? Olympics: The 1908 Olympics, which were partly held in Henley, cost a mere £20000 and made a small profit. Boris is undoubtedly capable of delivering a similarly amateur Games in 2012 whilst keeping strictly to budget. Health: I don't know what they put in the water here (it's probably Perrier), but there are an awful lot of sprightly old people around town. Mostly in blouses or blazers. Trains: No need for Oyster cards in Henley. There's just the one station, on a single-track branch line, with an hourly service, operated by two-carriage trains. And it all works perfectly smoothly. Surely the perfect model for Crossrail. Congestion Charge: There's no Congestion Charge in Henley, and yet traffic still manages to flow freely around the one-way medieval ringroad in the centre of town. It's a right pain for pedestrians, who have to wait ages to cross the street because the lights are against them. But all priority to the motorist, eh? Buses: During my five hour visit to Henley I saw only three buses. That's not many, you might think, compared to the thousands that ply the streets of the capital. But NOT ONE of the three was a bendy bus. London's transport policy is clearly safe in Boris's hands. Ethnic diversity: From what I saw on Saturday whilst observing residents and tourists, there's only one non-white face in Henley. And she looked happy enough. Boris for London, QED.
Exactly 100 years ago today, the fourth Olympics of the modern era kicked off in London. Yes, really, in April. But there was a reason for the early start. The Olympics wasn't a two week made-for-TV extravaganza in those days, but a lengthy international celebration of amateur sportsmanship. All a bit fledgling, and still a bit rough around the edges. London had been asked to take over the organisation of the 1908 Olympics at the last minute, after Vesuvius erupted in 1906 and the Italians wanted to divert their money to rebuilding Naples instead. Which meant that the 1908 Olympics were organised by British officialdom. And it's just possible that we used our home advantage to, erm, cheat.
One glimpse at the final medal table, seen here on the walls of the BBC's Media Village in White City, shows the full extent of our "sporting excellence". We didn't just beat the rest of the world, we thrashed them. We won almost as many medals as the rest of the world put together (perhaps because, at that time, only 23 nice upstanding countries with decent chaps got invited). We won all the gold medals in the lawn tennis and the boxing and the yachting and the rowing. We won the football and the hockey and the polo and the tug-of-war. And we were the only country to enter the Racquets competition, so not surprisingly we won that too. Bit suspicious, innit?
The 1908 Olympics started on April 27th and ended as late as October 31st. That's a whole six months of intermittent sporting activities, from the opening Racquets event at the Queens Club to the closing banquet at the Holborn Restaurant. All of the athletics events were crammed into a few summer weeks at the new White City stadium, but the rest were spread out across the year in a not terribly coordinated way. No problem if you're the home country and live a few miles up the road, but rather more difficult for foreign teams in an era before international jet travel.
1908 Olympic events not held at White City April: Rackets (Queen's Club) May: Tennis (Queen's Club) June: Polo (Hurlingham) July: Lawn Tennis (Wimbledon), Shooting (Bisley & Uxendon), Rowing (Henley), Yachting (Ryde) August: Yachting (Clyde), Motor boats (Southampton Water) October: Boxing (Clerkenwell), Skating (Knightsbridge)
And another rather dodgy thing. All the organisers and officials at all of the 1908 events were British. No doubt we thought we were just being helpful, not requiring the rest of the world to muck in on home turf, but this decision did leave the competition open to a certain amount of bias. And nowhere was this more evident that in the rowing events at Henley. These were organised by the local boatclub - the oldest rowing club in the world, the Leander. Their stewards were concerned that anyone who'd practised on the course before the Games began might have an unfair advantage, so they banned all foreign teams from advance training on the Thames. They also observed that the Belgian eight had won races at the Henley Royal Regatta for the two previous years, so they banned the 'over-experienced' Belgians outright. And, unbelievably, the Belgians agreed. But the Leander team had no such qualms about their own experience. They entered the 1908 rowing competition on behalf of the UK and, having practised umpteen times on their local river, went on to win gold with considerable ease. So much for British sportsmanship.
You can see one of these dubious gold medals on display in Henley's fascinating River and Rowing Museum. They've also got a blade from the same race, inscribed with the names of the eight victorious oarsmen, and a rather ornate commemorative programme. No mention of an apology from the Leander club, however.
The Olympic regatta returned to Henley in 1948, and once again Team GB was victorious (but this time deservedly so). The museum has the winning coxless pair's boat on display, as propelled to victory by Hugh Laurie's dad. And they're also lucky enough to have Redgrave and Pinsent's winning coxless four from the Sydney Games in 2000 , complete with aerodynamic prow and stuck-down Adidas trainers. I wonder if we stand any chance of coming away with a similar haul of medals when the Olympic Regatta arrives downriver in Eton in 2012. Without deliberately biasing all the arrangements again, I suspect not.
Ever since my doctor probed my cholesterol level and told me that I really ought to thin it down a bit, I've been eating a lot of chicken. It's one of the few permissible meatstuffs on my Flora-sponsored list of low fat foods, so I've been dining on it in abundance over the last six weeks. That and turkey. Oh look, yet another meal involving white meat. Perhaps a nice bit of breast shoved in the oven with a jacket potato, or maybe some diced chunks slopping around in a low fat soup. Again. I'm not allowed ready meal chicken in a stodgy creamy sauce, and I definitely can't do greasy fingerlicking KFC in a bucket, but bland chicken on a plate is always OK. Oh joy.
When chicken gets me down, I'm turning instead to oily fish. I'm eating a lot of salmon, for example. A heck of a lot of salmon. It has magic Omega 3 properties which suck the cholesterol out of my veins like a leech, so the more salmon I can gulp down the better. I'm getting to be quite a fan of prime salmon fillets, sizzling away and served up with new potatoes and a plateful of minted peas. For a quick snack, tinned salmon is also proving a favourite. Not a cheap favourite, because I can't cope with crunchy bony skin'n'all canfuls from the value end of the range. But hurrah for salmon, and tuna, and more salmon.
And I'm eating a lot of mushrooms. I'd not previously realised quite how easy they were to prepare and cook, just so long as I don't slosh them around in oil or cream or anything illegal. And plenty of apples and grapes, which I'm nibbling in preference to chocolate when I get the munchies. And lots of potatoes, so long as they've not been magicked into evil lardy chips. And slice after slice of butterless bread, and several tubs of low fat yoghurt, and of course bowls of steaming porridge. Lots of porridge, because you managed to persuade me it was worth persevering with a mouthful of gloop every morning, and I've concurred.
In short, I've been eating like an angel. I've had to turn down several meals out because there was nothing on the menu that satisfied my puritanical demands. I've ignored every single Krispy Kreme doughnut and flapjack minibite that well-meaning colleagues have brought into the office as shared workplace treats. I've blanked out the box of scrumptious Creme Eggs still sitting unopened on my kitchen worktop. And I've completely ignored the four multipacks of Worcester Sauce crisps stashed away inside my kitchen cupboard which are rapidly approaching their sell-by-date. My self-control has been unexpectedly flawless.
But I'm not sure I can live on this restricted intake forever. The thought of umpteen more chicked-based meals ad nauseam, or repeated platefuls of fishy goodness, isn't filling me with hope for the future. So I've booked a follow-up blood test for a fortnight's time, and then we'll see whether my doctor thinks all of this self-sacrifice has been worth the effort. Fingers crossed. And then I intend to go back to a not-quite perfect diet, with roast beef and roast potatoes and pies and chocolate and chips and cheese back on the menu again, but in moderation. I may also need to buy myself some new trousers, because my jeans have started attempting to fall down in public. I suspect that's a good thing. In the meantime, damn, I think it's chicken tonight.
Diet update: 6 weeks in Chocolate: nil (no, really, absolutely nil) Chips: just two small servings of low fat oven chips Crisps: nil (not even a single fried potato slice) Cheese: just 250g of tasteless low-fat plastic Red meat: just one pack of extra lean beef mince Weight lost: ten pounds (4½kg) (woo!)
Why is the latest London Underground tubemap sponsored by IKEA? That's 1672 wall-mounted maps at stations, each with a huge IKEA advert slapped across the bottom. That's six million pocket maps, distributed between now and next March, their back covers emblazoned with a big Nordic slogan. And that's four million Oyster wallets, no longer sky-blue but Swedish yellow, being flashed across London's ticket gates for the foreseeable future. Oh very clever Herr IKEA, very clever indeed. But why? Why attempt to brand the tubemap, when your stores aren't exactly tubemap-station friendly?
I mean, for a start, why go to IKEA by train anyway? It's fine if you want a vase or a tea strainer or some votive candles, but buy anything bigger like a flatpack wardrobe or a sustainable bunkbed and you're not going to get very far by public transport. IKEA is a car-owner's furniture warehouse, located where road access is most convenient, and stuff anyone arriving without their own wheels. Anyone attempting to take the tube home with a shelving unit or sofabed is going to jam themselves between a pair of IKEA-sponsored ticket gates.
And here's why I'm really concerned about this branding takeover. The IKEA ad on the back of the tubemap lists all four of their London stores and also how to get there. And, well, the nearest tube stations aren't exactly close, are they?
» IKEA Croydon [IKEA Ampere Way tram stop] Now that's clever. Apart from a certain oxygenated phone company (and, some would argue, Arsenal football club), IKEA are the only major company to wangle their brand into the name of a London station. In this case, however, it's only a tram stop, and Croydon's tram network doesn't yet appear on the tubemap. So it's not much use advertising there for spur-of-the-moment shoppers, is it?
» IKEA Edmonton [Tottenham Hale tube station. Free shuttle bus] Aha, an IKEA at a tube station that's actually on the map. Except that this tube station is well over a mile from the store so you'll have to wait for the occasional free shuttle bus, or walk. There is a nearer National Rail station, Angel Road, but it's not on the tubemap, it's closed at weekends and it doesn't accept Oyster cards. Which is a bit rubbish really.
» IKEA Lakeside [Chafford Hundred rail station] Cheat! This one's not even in London. It's two miles outside, and five miles from the nearest tube station (which is Upminster). Sure you can get here by c2c train, every half hour or so if you're lucky, but they don't take Oyster this far out either. It's M25 or bust, really.
» IKEA Wembley [Neasden tube station] [Free shuttle bus from Stonebridge Park tube station] I love the way they call this IKEA Wembley, not IKEA Neasden. But then the store is a really grim walk from Neasden tube - long and tortuous involving dubious road crossings and a seriously mucky footbridge. Or take that lovely shuttle bus, approximately every half an hour, from the forgotten end of the Bakerloo line. It's not ideal.
Why is the latest London Underground tubemap sponsored by IKEA? Because they paid two million pounds for the privilege, that's why. And because even car drivers take the tube sometimes.
Today is Walk To Work Day. It's a campaigning day, organised by Living Streets, on which Londoners are invited to walk to work. It's not terribly practical if you don't have any work to go to. It's a bit pointless if you work from home. It's not really feasible if you live in Uxbridge and work in the City (or indeed live in Liverpool and work in Manchester). But hey, even a pledge "to walk for at least 30 minutes on your way in" is good enough for the organisers. So, here goes.
I live just over four miles away from my place of work. On a good day, zipping in on the tube, I can get from door to door in less than half an hour. Half of that time is spent on the train, mostly nose to armpit, and the remainder spent walking to and from stations. This morning I'm going to increase the walking percentage to 100% and do the entire journey from Bow to Holborn on foot. Look, I'm up and awake a whole hour earlier than usual. I must be mad.
There are two big problems ahead, the first of which is that I can't travel in a straight line. If I could walk along the mainline tracks into Liverpool Street that would be perfect, but there isn't a perfectly parallel road or footpath running alongside. London's twisted grid of historic streets and alleyways wasn't designed for straight line travel, and there are several built-up obstructions along the way which have no pedestrian access whatsoever.
So I've gone along to the excellent site at walkit.com to plan my optimum route. Enter postcodes, cue detailed routemap. They propose three miles down the Bow/Mile End/Whitechapel Roads to Aldgate, then a curved mile-long trek through the City and onward up High Holborn. Total distance, just under five miles. Identical to the number 25 bendy bus route, in fact, only rather slower. At a fast walking pace (that's 4mph) they reckon I can walk to work in an hour and a quarter. Or at a medium pace (3mph) just over an hour and a half. It'll be good exercise, honest.
And the second problem is road junctions. I can't simply walk for five miles, I have to keep stopping at traffic lights to allow cars and buses and bikes to whizz past. Valuable minutes will tick by as I attempt to cross Cambridge Heath Road, and Commercial Street, and the scary junction outside the Bank of England. That tortuous subway at the Aldgate gyratory is going to slow me down no end, and the roundabout at Holborn Circus wasn't really designed for pedestrians. So I have no hope whatsoever of maintaining walkit's over-optimistic 4mph pace, not without hopping onto a bus, and that's cheating.
I've also tried entering my details on TfL's Journey Planner, which is flexible enough to cope with 100%-walk solutions, and they've suggested exactly the same bendy route. But they reckon it'll take me a couple of minutes short of two hours, which may be a more realistic target. We shall see. But hey, like I care. My morning commute today will take me past St Paul's Cathedral rather than underneath it. I'll get to enjoy the hustle of Whitechapel and the curves of the Gherkin rather than getting extremely squashed on the Central line. I'll be experiencing London rather than hiding below it. My journey may not be direct, and it may not be fast, but it sounds perfect to me. Just this once, though.
Here are my Twitter updates from the journey: » 06:36 Pedometer strapped on, walking shoes ready... it's time to walk 5 miles to work for Walk To Work Day. I must be mad. » 06:50 It's a glorious morning, clear blue skies, sun behind me and the City illuminated ahead. Passing Mile End tube, my end still 4 miles away. » 07:01 The A11 through Stepney may be quiet, but I'm being overtaken by cars, vans, bikes and bendy buses, plus a queue of Heathrow-bound planes. » 07:14 Whitechapel Market not yet set up, a one-armed beggar outside the tube, and the sun glinting on a golden minaret. Easily averaging 4mph. » 07:23 Into the Square Mile at Aldgate, surrounded by scuttling City suits, then on between Lloyd's and the Gherkin. Busier pavements now. » 07:36 One hour precisely from Bow Church to Bow Bells. Breathing in fresh-mixed tar and exhaust fumes... and the magnificent dome of St Paul's. » 07:50 Across Holborn Viaduct and into the final stretch, past my 8th tube station. Dodging commuters to maintain the pace. Sweating satisfactorily. » 08:01 Arriving at work at the usual time, 8843 steps later, having walked from home in just under 90 minutes. That's 3.4mph. Feels good. Once.
As dawn breaks over this blessed plot, the people of England are waking up to our very first St George's DayBank Holiday. This officially recognised day of national rejoicing has long been awaited by the patriots of our blessed realm. And now their gallant and iron-willed campaigning has finally come to fruition. Throughout the country Little Englanders will be enjoying a rare day off work to celebrate their national identity with a pint, a picnic basket and (more than likely) an umbrella. Hey nonny no. Let's party!
• Sponsored Jerusalem Marathon: The good ladies of Somerset's 58 Women's Institutes attempt to break the world record for shining forth upon clouded hills (coffee and biscuits will be served). [true/false] • Looking For A New England: Merry minstrel Billy Bragg discusses his new book "The Progressive Patriot" on stage at the Barbican, then sings that song Kirsty MacColl made famous. [true/false] • The Bakewell Pudding Race: Local children run three-legged around the town square whilst balancing a slice of this jam and almond treat on their heads. The winners get to scoff the lot, and the losers have to eat Jamie Oliver's healthy balanced school dinners for the rest of the month. [true/false] • The Great English Asparagus Run: Celebrate St George's Day With Asparagus! After the playing of Elgar's Land of Hope and Glory, the Lord Lieutenant of Worcestershire will be driven in a Morgan Motor Car from Evesham to London to present a porcelain platter of finest asparagus to a St George's Day Reception in the House of Commons. [true/false] • The Wisbech Morris Dancing Festival: Because nothing says "English" quite so much as bashing a bloated drunkard over the head with a pig's bladder. [true/false] • The ASBO Miracle Plays: Thetford's finest young talent invite you to step behind their bus shelter, sniff a bagful of glue and wake up minus a couple of teeth and all your jewellery. [true/false] • Festival of English Food: Do your arteries need furring? Then come along to Trafalgar Square this afternoon, courtesy of the gang at Borough Market, to enjoy a greasy Cornish pasty or a mouthful of wild boar or a Ginger Pig sausage roll (or maybe just a complimentary heart bypass). [true/false] • Burn-an-immigrant Bonfire: Three misguided Barking councillors invite you to revel in naked prejudice dressed up as a family day out. [true/false] • State Opening of Parliament: It'll be an extra special day for democracy in Stratford-upon-Avon where the inaugural day of the English Parliament will be attended by Her Royal Highness The Princess Royal. Laws expected to be passed by the end of the day include a 3pm "tea and scones" break for all English workers, compulsory fox-hunting in schools and the reintroduction of hanging. [true/false] • St George's Discovery Tour: Let Michael Palin be your guide as he leads a coach tour into the forgotten hinterlands of Turkey, or through the wastelands of Palestine, or round some other Middle Eastern backwater where our elusive patron saint may or may not have lived and almost certainly never slaughtered any dragons whatsoever. But don't let that stop you getting very drunk tonight. [true/false]
"Now off with you, and I'll see you again in six months time."
So ended yesterday's appointment at the Royal London Hospital's Outpatients Department. It's an oppressive cavern of a building, so old that it could have had a starring role in Casualty1907 (and, indeed, probably did). My consultant handed me a printed out sheet of A4 paper and directed me back to the reception desk outside. I walked briskly through the crowds in the waiting room - some in wheelchairs, some in the morbidly obese category, most from the local Bangladeshi community. I felt very much the odd one out, and wished that I hadn't come straight from work in a nice shirt with a broadsheet tucked under my arm. One lady was still complaining that she'd spent £50 to get here only to discover that her appointment had been cancelled (apparently the computer knew, but it doesn't let on to patients). I quickly escaped.
There was already a long queue at reception. The member of staff behind the desk was doing his best to enter everyone's details and usher them inside, or to direct them back the way they'd come for a blood test (there, that window back there, the one marked 'Blood Tests'). His desk was covered in piled-up folders and sheets of paper, and with a much more modern computer system than I remembered seeing on my previous visit. Last time it looked like the Royal London was still operating using 486s with a flashing DOS prompt. Now at last the technology looked sleeker, more colourful, and potentially more efficient. Or maybe not. The lady in front of me stood clutching a piece of yellow paper which stated "I NEED MY BLOOD TEST RESULTS", or some such linguisticaly undemanding phrase. But the attendant wasn't able to find her blood test results "because you haven't been entered on the system". So she shuffled off, and it was my turn.
I handed over my printed out sheet of paper. There was a sticker at the top with my name on, then underneath that a long list of possible consultation outcomes and tiny ticky boxes. Not one of them was ticked. I was one of the easy patients, no complications, just a next appointment to book. But nothing was easy with the new computer system. First of all I had to be checked out of my previous appointment so that the machine was ready for a new one. The clerk clicked on a series of buttons to bring up my details, then selected the appropriate menu item from an interminable list of drop-down lists. Every time I thought he'd finished I was wrong, there was still another click to be made, and another, and another.
And then to book me a follow-up appointment. Should have been simple. Same place, same consultant, same day of the week, six months time. The calendar on the wall made it pretty obvious that I'd be back on a Monday in mid-October. But not at all obvious to the 2-week-old computer system. "Doctor's not entered you on the system. It only works if the doctors enter you on the system. I mean, they've had the training, and we've told them it's essential, but they still don't do it. Hang on and I'll try and enter you myself." There followed a long struggle while the clerk searched the database for my consultant's name, and an even longer struggle to find the right title for my Monday clinic. Surely one of those hundreds of words beginning with C was the right one. Erm, maybe.
And finally to pick a date. The computer had already suggested a range from mid-October to mid-January but, on clicking, apparently there were no bookings available. Ridiculous, the whole of that period still ought to be mostly free. Try again. Computer says no. A passing nurse tried to assist by restricting the range to Mondays only, which I think was impossible, but still no luck. Ten attempts later, each click resulting in an identical pop-up error message, the booking clerk gave up. "Leave your card with me and we'll stick your appointment in the post." He cast my Outpatients record card into the seething maelstrom of paperwork on his desk, from which I fear it may never resurface, and moved on to service the waiting crowds behind me.
I shall be watching my postbox with anticipation, if more than a little pessimism, in case a follow-up appointment is ever forthcoming. I have my doubts. I have no faith whatsoever in this brand new automated system, complete with ridiculously over-complicated processes for checking in and out. It seems that administrators haven't been trained to use the computers properly and that doctors are busy treating patients rather than completing the "necessary procedures". The whole cretin-designed software infrastructure appears to be another colossal waste of NHS money. In fact a nursing sister with a diary and a pen, sat here in this very corridor 100 years ago, could have done a far more effective and efficient job. But that's progress for you. Let's hope I don't suffer a relapse before the computer finally invites me back.
Sent to:The Coventry Transport Museum Coventry belongs to the car. Not just because of the grim dual carriageway ring road bulldozed around the heart of the city in the 1960s, but more particularly because the British motor industry was born and thrived here. One of those we have to thank is James Starley, a Victorian sewing machine engineer from Coventry's Watchmaking Quarter whose mechanical genius diversified first into bicycle parts and then into bicycles themselves. His greatest invention was the penny-farthing, a big improvement on the gearless boneshakers of the day. A few tweaks later James's nephew John came up with the "safety bicycle", its chain drive and diamond frame still pretty much the basic design to this day. And the name of Starley's 1885 two-wheeler? The Rover Safety Bicycle. Success beckoned. In the early 1900s the Rover Cycle Company took its first tentative steps into automobile production, and the rest is history.
The tale of Coventry's motor manufacturing past is told in the brand new multi-million pound Transport Museum. It's part of a millennial makeoever of the northern city centre, complete with granite plaza, spiralling glass walkway and twin boomerang-shaped arches (in honour of Frank Whittle, father of the jet engine). A most impressive setting, even in the rain. And an unexpectedly impressivemuseum too, with free admission to boot. The opening gallery contains a collection of landmark bikes and veteran motor vehicles, most around a century old, and all designed and made in Coventry. Rover, Hillman, Daimler, Alvis, Singer and Triumph - all household names in their time, and all being fussed over by a variety of older visitors as I passed.
Next follow a series of galleries bringing Coventry's transport past to life, with authentic street odours and reconstructions of various workshops and assembly lines. There's a lengthy "Blitz Experience", of course, and thankfully the animated cartoon character designed to appeal to the under 10s never quite grates. And then the cars proper begin. A red Triumph sports car on a twirling podium, a compact 60s Mini (did you know they filmed The Italian Job in the Coventry sewers?), even an old electric milk float. I was particularly taken by a montage of old road safety adverts (ahh the Tufty Club, ahh Jimmy Savile clunking and clicking, ahh Darth Vader the Green Cross Man), although the crocodile of kids being led round the museum for a birthday treat didn't seem quite so interested.
At the rear of the building, in a darkened room, is the Thrust 2 vehicle which broke the world land speed record in 1983. It's huge, more a wheeled rocket than a car, and is curiously dated by the sponsors' adverts plastered all over the side (Faberge "Turbo" fragrance for men, anyone?). In the next room is its successor ThrustSSC, plus an extremely popular walk-on speed simulator, but alas the attendant closed off the entrance just as I walked round the corner. A room full of model cars didn't quite suffice, even if I did enjoy picking out my favourite Matchbox Hot Wheels amongst the collection. Several full-sized modern cars follow, plus an extensive collection of locally-sourced motorbikes and scooters, and an exhibition explaining precisely how bicycles developed.
And finally a reminder that Coventry's motor manufacturing days are now pretty much over. Near the exit is one of the final Peugeot 206s to roll off the production line at Ryton, unwrapped and undriven, next to a classic example of the only car still to be manufactured in the town - the famous London taxi! Coventry's economic star may have risen and fallen over the last century, but this museum is a fascinating way to relive the glory years.
» Coventry Canal Basin: The canal begins, or ends, at a Y-shaped basin just outside the ring road. It's been lovingly restored with heritage features, a statue of JamesBrindley and a few underfrequented shops. And, on Saturday lunchtime, just me and a couple of puffing narrowboats. » Bridge number 1: This little brick humpback is the smallest bridge on the canal system. It's deliberately narrow with no towpath for security reasons, allowing the canal's owners to lock up the basin overnight with a single wooden barrier. » Daimler Power House: Only this one building remains from the Daimler car factory which, in 1897, produced the very first production cars in the UK. Proper history, this. » Stag party on a boat: That party of drunken louts zigzagging down the canal while waving a pair of underpants on a pole, I do hope they're a regular part of the art trail. » Courtauld's factory: Another knocked down bit of industrial heritage. In 1905 this plant was the very first in the world to produce man-made fibres - in this case viscose filament yarn. The now-demolished chimney, at 365ft tall, was once the tallest in Britain. » Ordnance Works: During WW2 this was reputedly the largest workshop in Europe, packed with women making bombs. Is it any wonder the Luftwaffe came to bomb Coventry? » The Rover Factory: I was hoping to see a little more than a chimney and some undergrowth. Alas, it's not just Coventry's canals that have faded away. » Some ducks, a few swans, and a couple of boys in hoodies on bikes: I love canals, I really do.
Sent to:Coventry It's one of the ten largest cities in England. It's centuries older than its upstart Brummie neighbour. It's famous for 2 Tone records, car manufacturing and naked ladies on horseback. It suffered terribly during World War Two, and some would argue equally terribly at the hands of the post-war planners. It's the UK city that's furthest from the sea. It's Coventry, and I went sightseeing there yesterday. No, really, there was just enough to fill a day out. Who'd have thought? • The Coventry Pages • Historic Coventry • Coventry Days Out • Visit Coventry
Sent to:Coventry Cathedral Poor old Coventry hasn't been lucky with its cathedrals. Twice the good people of the town have erected a monumental masterpiece, and twice it's been destroyed by catastrophic circumstances beyond the city's control. Nowhere else in the UK has been singled out like this, not on either count, just Coventry. The firstcathedral lasted nearly half a millennium, but was pulled down on the orders of King Henry VIII during the Dissolution of the Monasteries. You can still see a few scrappy foundations in a garden beyond the shopping precinct, and in the frankly underwhelming VisitorCentre beyond. The secondcathedral survived until 14th November 1940, on which night Coventry received the full attention of the Luftwaffe and suffered extreme widespread bomb damage. Fires spread uncontrollably from the roof of the cathedral, and by morning only a rubble-filled charred shell remained.
Today the remains of that old cathedral still stand, nave open to the sky, as a memorial to the futility of war . The walls are mostly intact, with only the occasional fragment of stained glass in the empty windows. A side chapel here, the bottom few steps of a spiral staircase there - it's a sobering thought to stand in silence and reflect on what used to be. On the stone altar a wooden cross has been erected, labelled FATHER FORGIVE, and elsewhere a series of more modern sculptures maintain the theme of reconciliation. Meanwhile, towering over all this (if a steeple can tower) is the third largest cathedral spire in the country. It survived the flames, as did a couple of other nearby steeples, and now hosts a rather dingy Visitor Information centre in the base.
And so to cathedralnumberthree. The opportunity to design a very modern replacement was given to Basil Spence, and the Queen popped along to lay the foundation stone in 1956. It's certainly in striking contrast to the original, and highly unusual in that it faces north-south rather than east-west. Old and new cathedrals meet across an elevated porch above St Michael's Lane , and a remarkable bronze statue of St Michael spearing a devil is affixed to the outside of the building . Do try to concentrate on the loveliness of the sandstone exterior, because the surrounding architecture is quite hideous. St Michael looks out over a particularly nasty gym and the main entrance to Coventry University, while adjacent to the Lady Chapel is the sort of pig-ugly concrete hotel which suggests that the death penalty might successfully be reintroduced for 70s architects.
Entrance to the new cathedral is through a tiny sidedoor past the information desk (unless you're royalty, in which case presumably they let you in through the ceremonial doors in the multi-storey windowetched with angels). And, wow. This is no characterless aircraft hangar, this is a vast spiritual space lit by streams of vibrant daylight. Closest to the south door is the curved BaptistryWindow, an amazing wall of stained glass towering over the rocky font (hewn from a boulder lifted from a Bethlehem hillside). Further thin windows cast their angled light up the nave, towards the spiky-topped chancel and the imposing green tapestry of Christ hung above the Lady Chapel . Even the organ pipes rise up to the undulating diamond ceiling like a battery of heavenly artillery. Everything in here is about height not breadth, and the end result is a soaring verticality as imposing as any medieval cathedral - but with a modern twist.
For a more intimate experience head off into a cylindrical side chapel for some silent contemplation , or pause awhile and reflect beneath one of the many symbolic crowns of thorns. I don't necessarily recommend popping down to the crypt for a very ordinary cup of tea, just stay upstairs and soak in the ethereallightshow. Thank God the post-war planners got one bit of Coventry spot on perfect.
"Yowright?" asks the smiling newsagent as she packs up the papers for the evening. Five o'clock, the rain is tumbling from leaden skies and this city's shops are shutting down for the evening. Assorted groups of JJB-clad youths shuffle off home, or go and hang around in the dry beneath the concrete ring road. This city centre is encircled by tarmac, forced through medieval streets with no thought to the consequences. Here the car is king, and rightly so. The award-winning transport museum tells the local four-wheeled success story, now all but faded away. And tells it well. My mystery day trip over, I'm now heading home on a warm dry Pendolino. And where was I? Ha, it's been written at the very bottom of the page all along!
I have resisted climbing up the old cathedral tower, because I'm not convinced that the view will be worth the effort. And anyway, it's blustery enough down here, so I hate to think what conditions are like in midair beneath one of the tallest spires in the country. It's rather warmer inside the glassy replacement nextdoor, where the verger is filling six giant candles by the altar with what looks like white spirit. I am duly impressed. And now, as the old clock strikes half past, a wedding party enters the open nave for the taking of the official photographs. The shivering bridesmaids look like they wish their burgundy and cream dresses were a bit more weatherproof. Me, I'm warming to the place.
This is not a beautiful city. The sky may be dotted with steeples, but also with tower blocks and cranes. There may be pockets of medieval and Tudor gorgeousness, but much of the city centre is brutal concrete regeneration. It's not the locals' fault, but post-war planners did the place few architectural favours. Betjeman would not have been impressed. I have yet to venture into the city centre proper, but I have been to the house of a man who invented a much loved form of transport, and the church responsible for a well known phrase or saying. I'm also bloody cold. Now for a perhaps ill-advised walk alongside the choppy waters of the canal. Although the steamy smell from that narrowboat is divine, and just how record-breaking is that bridge? (Oh, and Pedantic of Purley, sorry, you're wrong...)
dg's Moblogged Mystery Tour: I'm sat on a train at a central London terminus, about to set off on a journey of discovery to an anonymous English city. It's further away than Margate, my last mystery destination, but I expect to get there rather quicker. I've not been to this historic city since 1982, and then only to hop straight onto a minibus outside the station to attend a university interview. It's not a terribly popular tourist destination, although perhaps it ought to be, so I'm going to find out if there's anything worth seeing. On a cold grey day in April. I must be mad. I'll report back from various locations along the way, via my mobile phone, to let you know how I'm getting on. But I'm not going to tell you where I am, because it wouldn't be a mystery tour otherwise. See if you can guess...
When I lived in Suffolk, and owned a car, I used to think nothing of speeding around the county. I could do 30 miles up the A14 in half an hour, or 50 miles up the A12 in an hour, no problem. I drove my car at speeds close to those for which it was designed, and reached my destination with satisfying velocity. OK so my exhaust pipe was busy killing the planet, and all the time I was trying very hard not to think what would happen if I propelled myself into a hedge at great velocity, but I could never have held down a job without my own four wheels.
In London a car is rather less of a necessity. And, for those who still feel they need to own a vehicle, considerably slower. It's nigh impossible to drive at 30mph in London, let alone 30 miles in 30 minutes. Every time you stick your foot on the accelerator, there's either a traffic light or a traffic jam ahead. Every time you sense the pull of the open road, you're more likely to have to swerve to dodge a jaywalking pedestrian or negotiate a speed bump instead. Every time you think there's a direct route to somewhere straight ahead, there's probably a bus lane or a one-way system sending you minutes out of your way. And even on the rare occasions when you think you've found the perfect length of uncongested dual carriageway for a quick burn, there's almost certainly an evil yellow speed camera standing sentinel beside the road just itching to dispatch a huge fine to your doormat. London's no place for speed. How very tedious.
But that doesn't stop them, does it. Those determined petrolheads in their souped up motors, putting their foot down for a few brief seconds between road junctions just to show off. Light goes green, foot to the floor, roar of engine noise, screeching tyres, sudden halt at red signals. Bastards.
And I met them twice on the way home last night. There I was nonchalantly crossing Bow Road, oncoming traffic seemingly a safe distance away, when a white van came careering towards me like some kind of homing missile. I skipped rapidly to the central reservation, attempting to pretend that I wasn't in fear of my life, and the van zoomed past on its five second journey to the next traffic lights. I listened out, hoping to hear the reassuring crunch of bonnet on lamppost, but alas no such retribution was forthcoming. Shortly afterwards, attempting to cross a garage forecourt, I was nearly flattened a second time. A grey estate car rammed with teenage testosterone shot forward at great speed on the minimal journey from petrol pump to forecourt exit. Ten metres max, but the driver still managed to propel his vehicle at unfeasible speed past the free air and tyre pump before braking hard in front of me. His cargo of spiky-haired hormones seemed duly impressed. I noticed, as he pulled out into the traffic at half the speed of sound, that one entire side of the car was virtually concave as if it had been hit by a bollard several times. The other side can't have been far behind.
Certain killjoy Mayoral candidates have already expressed a desire to restrict London's speed limit even further. Red Ken wants the limit on residential roads to be cut to 20mph, while Green Sian wants every road reduced to 20mph unless local boroughs agree exceptions. I can't see either of those measures being entirely successful, not in a capital where average speeds are considerably lower than 20mph already. But I suspect the underlying aim of such a draconian limit is to make Londoners so incredibly bored with driving that they switch to greener transport. If it took two hours to pootle from one side of the capital to the other, even on an empty road, you might just switch and take the train instead. Unless you're a raging virile boy racer, that is, in which case no mere 20mph limit is going to stop you burning up the High Street in three seconds flat. Only a large brick wall will stop that. And hopefully soon.
Don't miss your opportunity to see the latest designs for the Olympic Stadium
The Olympic Torch may have bypassed Bow last week, but the Olympic Delivery Authority dropped in last night for a proper session with the local community. The ODA have nearly finished preparing detailed plans for the Olympic Stadium, and they wanted to see what we thought. So they turned up in a local school hall with the architect, set out a few chairs and waited to see who'd turn up. And a few of us did. Maybe if they'd mentioned there was free tea and biscuits, there'd have been more than 20.
The full consultation roadshow came to town. A posh white lectern labelled "engage", a big video screen, lots of microphones, and a headphoned bloke in charge of cables. All of the panellists wore their vivid 2012 logo lapel badges, and the first speaker's Powerpoint notes looked like they'd emptied the ODA's inkjet printer of every colour except black. The ethnic diversity of the E3 postcode was well represented across the ODA staff present, but alas not amongst the audience which was conspicuously white. There's a lot more reaching out to the local community still to be done.
We were treated first to an update on the state of the Olympic Park. I was already well aware how far advanced the preparations were, having been up on the Greenway bridge taking my monthly photo less than two hours earlier. More than 75% of the entire park has already been demolished, and the stadium site itself now resembles a flattened earth bowldotted with the occasional digger. We were told how thousands of native fish, insects and amphibians have already been "translocated", in readiness for their offspring to return to refreshed waterways once the legacy phase kicks in. And as for the 52 pylons currently scattered across the site, they'll be coming down later this year and all the cables threaded underground.
Deep breath. Time for the first Questions and Answers session. It was soon clear that the audience had all of the questions, and the panellists had few of the answers. Why is the Greenway still uncomfortably unsafe after dark, and did anyone try liaising with the Lea Rivers Trust before they folded, and will anyone force London Cement to stop belching dust when the Olympics comes? Dunno. In their defence, the ODA staff did politely offer to go away and find out everything they didn't know and forward the details, but this wasn't good enough for one member of the audience who promptly stormed out, noisily. As the evening continued it became apparent that our audience was sprinkled with local residents who might best be described as gauche argumentative nutters. But thankfully not too many of them.
And then the main event - a presentation from one of the architects who helped to design the new Olympic Stadium. We got to see all the promotional photos and videos that the London 2012 team released last November, but we were also treated to some rather finer detail about how the place will actually operate. The stadium looks suspiciously like a giant bowl of trifle, ladled full of custard churned round with hundreds and thousands. It's been cunningly designed so that the top tier can be removed after the Paralympics, reducing seating capacity from 80000 to a more sustainable 25000. Only after the Games will all the spectators be roofed in - during 2012 only two-thirds of the seats will have the luxury of a rain/sun shade. It's "best value", apparently, and it's all about "embracing the temporary". Even the toilets will be housed inside big metal containers which can be carted off and used elsewhere afterwards.
The stadium will take full advantage of the natural slope of the land by having two very distinct ground levels. All the service roads and the arena floor will be tucked away down at towpath level, approached from the south and west, while all the spectators will wander around 6m higher up at podium level, approached from the north and east. The architects have also taken full advantage of the stadium's "island" setting (two sides river, one side sewer). Once spectators have made it over the footbridges and onto the "podium island", they'll be free to wander in and out of the stadium or around the surrounding plazas where all the food and services will be based. Please, begged our audience, please make as much of the food as possible locally sourced and not that heart-stopping fat-dripping multinational burger crap. Only time will tell whether or not our voice is heard.
Many topics were raised during the final Q&A session, often of only tangential relevance to the stadium itself. The architect was unable to confirm security arrangements, although he did say that the entire stadium and surrounding island would be capable of being cleared in 8 minutes flat. He was also unable to confirm precisely how many bridges might be built connecting the Olympic Park to Bow. Residents remained keen for access to be as great as possible, not least because we'd rather like the 9000 workers on site over the next few years to come and spend money in our cafes and shops. The ODA spokeswoman assured us that there'll be another consultation later in the year to discuss proposals for the "public realm", including access points and legacy parkland, and I suspect many of us will be back for that.
Meanwhile, back on the Olympic Stadium site, the initial piling starts this week. Foundations and earthworks will be next, and by the time those are complete it's hoped that planning permission for the rest of the stadium will have been granted. All being well we'll have a big bowl of Olympic trifle on our doorstep as early as February 2011, completed ready for test events to take place a whole year before the Games begin. And don't worry, because we local residents hope to be popping back to be consulted at regular intervals between now and then, and we'll try to ensure that your money is being well spent. I have to say, it looks like it so far.
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Somewhere famous: Winston Churchill I really struggled to find somewhere famous in Redbridge. Somewhere celebrated, notable and world-renowned. Erm, no, I couldn't think of one either. So in the end I gave up on a location and settled on a person instead. And Britons don't come much more famous than Sir Winston Churchill. He never lived here, but he did represent the constituency of Woodford(and Wanstead) for nearly 35 years. It wasn't his first choice of constituency either. Winston started out in Oldham (elected 1900), then moved rapidly on to Manchester (elected 1906) and Dundee (elected 1908). In 1924, after three successive defeats elsewhere, he ended up as the "Independent Constitutionalist anti-Socialist" MP for Epping. And it was from this constituency base that he became Chancellor, and Prime Minister, and indeed Much Loved Saviour Of The Island Race. In the post-war election of 1945 the constituency was split in two, so Churchill plumped for Woodford and stayed on almost until his death. During this period the lucky Premier was bestowed with the Freedom of Wanstead and Woodford - a rare honour indeed - and often popped into the Eagle at Snaresbrook for a pint with the locals. Probably not as often as they'd have liked, though. In 1959 a grateful constituency paid £5000 to erect a larger than life bronze statue on Woodford Green. It was unveiled by Field Marshall Viscount Montgomery, and initially required a 24 hour police guard as a precaution against practical jokers. And Churchill's still there, up by the bus stop on the High Road, at the tip of the village green. A splendid avenue of mighty trees stretches up Salway Hill behind him as, with bronze hand resting on bronze coattails, he surveys the constituency that still reveres his name. by tube: Woodford by bus: 20, 179, 275, W13
Somewhere retail: Barkingside High Street On the edge of London, with rolling Green Belt beyond, is a wonderfully ordinary British High Street. No Starbucks has yet infiltrated, and no out-of-town mall has sucked the independent retailers dry. It's BarkingsideHigh Street - half a mile of proper shopping from Geezer's barbershop in the north down to Chequers Fruit and Veg in the south. And, perhaps of greatest interest, "many of the buildings along the high street are owned by entrepreneur Alan Sugar". So it says on Wikipedia anyway, although with a niggling "citation needed" added as a pedantic superscript, so it may not actually be true. I took a Saturday stroll amongst the Redbridge shoppers to see if I could determine which classy independent retail outlets might be Suralan's. Danny's Pie and Mash, surely, offering all day breakfasts and Great British Dinners at knockdown prices. Styles Ahead, obviously, a beauty parlour from which near-Essex ladies emerge shampooed, re-clawed and browned off. Rossi Bros ice cream parlour, possibly, its frozen produce utterly enticing for those not adhering to restrictive diets. The Mayfair stationers, perchance, given that most of Sir Alan's property portfolio lurks in W1, not IG6. Yosi's Gourmet Bagels, maybe, its chocolate coloured doors long since locked and shuttered down. Panache ladies outfitters, potentially, now under new management and selling blouses for a tenner or less. The Chubby Panda Chinese restaurant, perhaps, offering 10% discount on takeaways but now closed on Mondays. The Barnardo's charity shop, conceivably, because this charity's UK HQ is based in the heritage village at the bottom of the road. Or my very favourite, The Cheesecake Shop, from which guilty feeders emerged grinning onto the pavement stuffed with torte, gateau, mudcake, pavlova or meringue. This is how shopping ought to be. I await with anticipation the first episode of The Apprentice to be filmed here. by tube: Barkingside by bus: 150, 167, 169, 247, 275, 462
Somewhere sporty: Cricklefield Athletic Ground Now you might think I'm scraping the barrel with a visit to the home ground of IlfordFC, currently scraping the bottom of Ryman League Division One. But ah no, I know a major sporting venue when I see one, and this athletics stadium east of Ilford is just that. It may look little more than a six-lane track behind the pay and display at Ilford Swimming Pool, with a couple of goalposts and an empty grandstand, hemmed in by houses and a cemetery. But ah no, this unassuming backwater is in fact an international Olympic arena. Or at least it was, briefly, at the last London Games in 1948. The England team played a couple of first round matches here in deepest Ilford, the first a glorious two-one victory over Luxembourg and the second a pitiful two-nil loss against France. Not a great year for English football medals, 1948. And best not to mention the only other international football match to take place here at Cricklefield - a friendly against West Germany in 1957 which we lost drei-zwei. Last Saturday's league fixture against Wingate & Finchley was a rather more mundane affair. I arrived in time for the early preparations, with the commemorative iron gates unlocked to admit the eager and the tracksuited. The team gathered slowly on the terraces, noisily warming up for the afternoon's travails. In the spartan clubhouse kitchen six packets of white baps were piled up on a plastic table, awaiting transformation into £3.20 egg and bacon burgers. And what do you know, the league's bottom club managed a home win that afternoon, easing themselves almost (but not quite) out of the relegation zone. Never let anyone tell you that Olympic sporting facilities won't be well used by the local community during the legacy phase. by train: Seven Kings by bus: 86
Somewhere historic: Wanstead Park One of the grandest houses ever seen in Britain was built in Wanstead in the early 18th century. Wanstead House was a pioneer of Palladian style, with mighty Corinthian pillars and a 200ft-long frontage. The gardens were landscaped with tree-lined avenues and ornamental waterways, creating a spectacular Versailles-like estate. A mixture of Blenheim Palace and Hampton Court, if you like, and much favoured by the nobles and gentry of the Georgian era. So why have you never heard of Wanstead House, let alone visited? Because it's been completely demolished, that's why, leaving only the surrounding parkland as evidence of magnificence lost. And the tale of its disappearance is worthy of a modern day soap opera.
Wanstead once had a Tudor manor, snapped up in 1667 by the extremely rich Governor of the East India Company, Sir Josiah Child. He was succeeded by his son Richard who knocked down the old house and built an ostentatious replacement, in a successful attempt to improve his social standing. Anyone who was anyone came to Wanstead to admire, to socialise and to marvel. So far so good. In 1750 the house passed to Richard's grandson John - a dapper individual with a love of fine art. John never married (they didn't allow civil partnerships in those days) so the estate was eventually inherited by an unsuspecting nephew. And when his son died at the tragically early age of 10, Wanstead Park ended up in the possession of teenage heiress Catherine. Poor Catherine. She was courted by many men, but in the end discarded the portly Duke of Clarence in favour of raffish young William Pole-Wellesley. As mistakes go, this was a monumental biggie. The Duke went on to become King, and William turned out to be a womanising gambler with venereal disease and an irresponsible lifestyle. 10 years later, in 1822, William's creditors forced the sale of Wanstead House and all of its contents in an attempt to pay back a quarter of a million pounds of debt. But the house, alas, failed to attract any bids whatsoever and so was demolished and sold off piecemeal, brick by brick. Catherine died soon afterwards, tragically young, while her miserable husband lived into old age to wreck several more lives. Roll credits.
Wander around the vast acreage of WansteadPark today, through the bluebell woods or across gorse-blown heathland, and only a few clues remain to its splendid past. That series of umpteen artificial ornamental lakes for a start, they don't look very municipal. And that crumbling stone grotto by the water's edge, it could only have been built on the orders of an 18th century aristocrat with a sense of the theatrical. And that low pillared building on a grassy mound at the end of a long chestnut avenue, it looks far more like a classical temple than a tea hut.
Yes, it's a 'temple', and I was delighted to discover this folly open to the public (behind the scaffolding) when I arrived on Saturday. The park is now maintained and run by the City of London, and two of their finest volunteers were in duty to show me (and a handful of other visitors) around inside. The place is run as a small museum which tells the story of Wanstead Park, and there's no shortage of interesting exhibits. Old maps, information panels, rescued statues, and even the sales catalogue from the 1822 auction. There's also a cabinet full of Roman remains, dug up on site centuries ago when the tree-lined avenues were being laid. Oh yes, there must have been a Roman villa somewhere in the grounds once, but its precise location has long been lost. The extremely enthusiastic guide told me everything I needed to know about the house's history, and more, and I know she'd be glad to welcome you too. Really, this fascinating park ought to be seen and enjoyed by far more than an audience of local dog walkers. by tube: Wanstead
Somewhere random: the Wanstead Golden Jubilee Walk Every time I visit a random borough, I like to go on a proper walk described on a local website. So, to celebrate the Queen's visit to Wanstead in 2002, I found myself strolling along and around Wanstead High Street. I didn't quite follow the correct route, and I walked a bit further than they intended, but ooh, what a lot there was to see. No really.
• When you reach St Mary's Church enter the grounds by a small gate: A most impressive Georgian pile, the only Grade 1 listed building in Redbridge, and which looks like it'd be more at home just off Regent Street. Look, there's a sentry box in the graveyard once used to guard against body snatchers. • This Green is a lovely reminder of Wanstead's rural past: Indeed it is, but it's all an illusion. The A12 dual carriageway was carved straight through the middle of Wanstead in the late 1990s, like a concrete scar. But for a few hundred metres it's been hidden in a tunnel, directly underneath the village green, and you'd never realise what a complete mess the road made everywhere else. • 'The George' pub:Rather bigger than your average pub, built on the site of an old coaching inn. Most notable is the a stone plaque on the front wall commemorating the theft of a cherry pie by a scaffolder working at the pub in 1752 (and his fine of a shilling and a half). Maybe today's petty criminals should be shamed in the same way, eh, eh? • At the junction with Grove Park is 'The Corner House': Built by a Dr Corner in 1890, and with intricate astronomical etchings in the cement. A plaque by the door commemorates James Bradley, former curate of this parish and later the Astronomer Royal. The whole building is currently sealed off by metal shutters to keep out squatters. • Christ Church, built in 1861: It's a Gilbert Scott, you know. Proper gothic. • On your left is the Wanstead United Reformed Church: You'd never guess, but this church used to be where St Pancras station now stands. And when the Barlow Train Shed took precedence, they rebuilt the entire church here in Wanstead. Near some Art Deco flats. • In Wanstead High Street: What a charmingcivilisedshoppingstreet this is. Heads 'N' Tails Pet and Garden supplies (bedding plants £1.20). AG Dennis Ltd Family Butcher (a proper jolly flesh dealer). Judith of Wanstead (she sells suburban ladies clothes to suburban ladies). And horsfall and wright (my favourite shop, packed with quirky designs, but alas the website's crap). • Snaresbrook Crown Court: This gothic temple to justice (another Gilbert Scott) is no doubt much better viewed from the outside (across the giant duckpond) than from the inside. by tube: Wanstead by bus: 66, 101, 145, 308, W12, W13, W14
You're probably not 100% certain where Redbridge is, are you? It's not got a terribly memorable name, and this isn't helped by it being named after a red brick bridge which was knocked down in 1921. The anonymous borough of Redbridge lurks on the edge of northeast London, consisting of Ilford, the M11 corridor and vast swathes of mid 20th century suburban estates. This is affordable London, home to thousands of very ordinary families, and not in any way on the tourist trail. I was quite worried that there wouldn't be enough out here to report back on, but in the end I was very pleasantly surprised.
Somewhere to begin: Redbridge Museum Yes, even Redbridge has its own museum. It's spread over a couple of floors in Ilford Library, just off the main shopping street so that most blinkered consumers would never find it. The building is cursed by automatic doors that swish open rather prematurely, as if to draw your attention to the goodies beyond. And what do you know, there's plenty of Redbridge history for the museum to boast about. The main gallery contains a variety of themed exhibits, from the usual archaeological finds to the more recent industrial and social history of the area. Burial and supermarkets are unexpectedly popular themes. In the 1860s the complete skull of a woollymammoth was uncovered beneath what is now Boots the Chemist, buried here when Ilford was just temperate grassland. And the famous Ilford photographic company started up in the town in the 1870s, but the business moved on 100 years later and a superstore has since been built on the original factory site. The museum clearly has an eye on the primary school trip audience, but everything's extremely well presented. Meanwhile in the first floor gallery they've just kicked off a special exhibition devoted to Suffragette and campaigning feminist Sylvia Pankhurst who used to live in Woodford (and also in Bow, so I was especially interested). Well done Redbridge, more people deserve to hear of you. by train: Ilford by bus: 25 (and many more)
Somewhere pretty: The Hainault Loop See that big orange loop at the eastern end of the Central line? That's Redbridge, that is. Apart from the three really quiet stations at the top which are in Essex, so I didn't have an excuse to alight at Roding Valley, Chigwell or Grange Hill. But I visited all the others, and a few of them are very special indeed. This end of the Central line opened in the late 1940s, delayed somewhat by munitions factories being operated in the tunnels during WWII. Many of the stations were converted from LNER operation, and still retain a period charm not entirely wrecked by Metronet. White wooden canopies, well-worn solid benches and decorative ironwork - all a million miles away from the modern brutality of certain central London stations. Fairlop is like a rural halt in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Barkingside has a footbridge from which you can watch half the action at the non-league club nextdoor. Redbridge is more of a subterranean cavern with central tiled pillars, reminiscent of something Eastern European. But the finest examples of postwar architecture lie inbetween.
There's very little sign of Gants Hill station above the surface, just a large roundabout in the middle of the A12 with five brightly tiled subways leading down into the depths. Pass down into the ticket hall and descend the escalators, and then wow! The central lobby ahead has a mighty arched ceiling, with passageways to either side between tiled pillars leading to the two platforms . Everything is cream and shiny, even the floor, and the tiles are topped off with light orange trim. And down the centre of this cathedral-like space are three sets of paired uplighters, tall and thin like massive brown goblets. They rise up from a series of marble islands, each with a chunky wooden bench at its heart. Is this an insignificant London suburb or is this an important station on the Moscow underground? The platforms may not be sensational , but they still have a sense of architectural haughtiness. Maybe it's the special London Transport clock, with roundels for digits and another roundel for a hand. Waiting for a train here is no hardship.
At Newbury Park the impressive feature is outside the station, not down on the unremarkable platforms. Exit from the ticket hall along a long brick corridor and you emerge into a bus station like no other. This interchange building, with its long barrel-vaulted roof topped with copper, makes a mighty modernist statement . It's as if someone's sliced a hollow cylinder in half to create a giant concrete insect with a green back and slender curving legs. Inside, beneath the airy canopy, equally-spaced wall-mounted lamps are shielded by thin metal fins . And down on the ground just one single bus stop serving a mere three single-decker routes, with infrequent service, in one direction only. A most ambitious project, but whose potential was never fully realised in its locality before the building money ran out. At least Oliver Hill's design won a special architectural award during the Festival of Britain, even if the plaque now has a crack across it. It's well worth getting a ticket to Zone 4 just to take a look. by tube: Gants Hill, Newbury Park by bus: 66, 296, 396
Random borough (17): Woohoo, halfway at last! Time yet again for me to take another random trip to one of London's 33boroughs. As I write I have no idea which one of the 17 remaining borough names will be revealed when I unfold the slip of paper I'm about to pick from my "special jamjar". I could pick any of London's other boroughs - inner or outer, urban or suburban, small or large, fascinating or dull. I just know it won't be Merton, Islington, Enfield, Sutton, Lewisham, Southwark, Kensington & Chelsea, Hackney, Hillingdon, the City, Bromley, Lambeth, Tower Hamlets, Haringey, Hounslow or Brent because they're the sixteen (dark grey) boroughs I've picked out already.
My haphazard capital odyssey has so far taken four years, and isn't due to be completed until 2012. I may now be halfway through my quest but (unbelievably) the whole of East London is still up for grabs. There are a few stragglers in southwest London, and there's also a ring of untouched boroughs surrounding Brent, but that's all. Which of these leftovers will be my halfway house? Will I be treated to the cultural highlights of somewhere central and important, like Westminster or Camden? Or will I be dispatched somewhere rather more peripheral and off-radar, like Barnet or Bexley? Watch this space.
Once I've researched my randomly-chosen borough online then I'll head off and visit some of its most interesting places (assuming it has any). As usual I hope to visit somewhere famous, somewhere historic, somewhere pretty, somewhere retail, somewhere sporty and somewhere random. I might even take lots of photographs while I'm at it, if the borough's photogenic enough. Then after I've made my grand tour I'll come back tomorrow and tell you all about it. Let's see where I'm going this time...
fivelinks • See London mapped by ethnicity, deprivation, crime, health (and more) at the utterly brilliant London Profiler. [yup, I though I lived in an area like *that*] • Ari and Ellie's Exactitudes is a photographic collection of global fashion tribes. [currently being exhibited inSelfridges] [but not for long] • The latest addition to my blogroll is East London's Sajarina. [of special local interest to those of you around Stratford and Newham] • Ooh lovely. The Letter is an online catalogue of great design ideas collated by Blair in Glasgow. [mmmm, beard alphabet; mmm, Lego mp3 player; hmm, furry fornication] • If you've ever wondered how and why London's buses got their route numbers, Red-RF can tell you. [1-199 were originally Central Area double-deck routes, etc, etc]
My kitchen and bathroom both suffer from an extreme case of windowlessness. No natural light ever pierces these dark recesses of my flat, neither does the soft spring breeze ever waft gently through their becalmed atmosphere. Both rooms therefore have an extractor fan fitted, in compliance with official building regulations. And I have both extractor fans permanently switched off. Tell me, is this wrong?
Every year my landlord sends round the "gas safety check" man, while I'm out, to check whether my boiler is about to kill me. Two years ago this workman took it upon himself to fit a new extractor fan in my kitchen, replacing the original which had stopped working. I discovered this when I returned home, switched on the kitchen light and heard a loud whirring above my head. I switched off the kitchen light but the whirring continued. And continued. And continued to continue. Half an hour later it was still continuing, and only after 45 minutes did it finally splutter out. Hmm, I thought, this can't be right. So I experimented again, and again the automatic suction drone took 45 minutes to terminate. So I switched off the extractor fan and its protracted delay timer, and have continued to use my kitchen in an unventilated manner ever since.
I don't want the racket of an extractor fan forever interrupting my peace and quiet. I don't want a low buzzing noise burbling away beneath every CD or mp3 I play. I don't want to waste money on 44 pointless minutes of electricity every time I walk out of my kitchen. I don't want to lie in the bath straining to hear the radio above the spinning fan grinding away above my head. And I don't want to lie awake in bed every night wishing I hadn't popped into the kitchen just before bedtime and waiting for the hurricane to cease. I don't have a hot and steamy flat, I don't suffer from condensation and my morning bath is never plagued by clouds of rampant moisture. So both extractor fans stay firmly out of action*. * unless I have something bubbling ferociously on the stove, in which case I switch the fan on and off manually.
This week the "gas safety check" man came round again. Pre-warned, I left him a note complaining that the extractor fan in the kitchen droned on for far too long, and could he shorten its automatically-determined duration. Mistake. I returned home, switched on the light in the kitchen and was greeted again by the sound of my extractor nemesis. At the bottom of my note the engineer had scribbled a sarky reply in semi-legible block capitals. "THE VENT NEEDS TO BE LEFT ON". And on my official gas safety certificate, under the heading Give Details Of Any Faults, he'd written "LEAVE THE VENT ON". Patronising jobsworth bastard. I switched the vent off again, permanently, and continued with my unextracted ways. Tell me, was I wrong?
I cannot work out why it's apparently so essential to have a functioning automatic light-switch-based extractor fan with a 45 minute time delay in my kitchen. OK, so I have a gas boiler in there, but its operation is in no way connected to whether I've turned my kitchen light on or not. If my boiler decides to leak and render me unconscious overnight, no illumination-related vent will save my life. As for my gas oven, admittedly I tend never to use it in the dark. But 95% of the time I go into the kitchen I'm not using anything gas-operated at all. Why do I need the fan running every single bloody time I fancy a slice of toast or a bowl of cereal or a glass of water. I wouldn't mind quite so much if it switched off after half a minute, but three quarters of an hour is just taking the piss. I'm not wrong. Am I?
: Today's the day! Early this afternoon, somewhere between lunchtime and teatime, diamond geezer will receive its millionth visitor. Actually that's not quite true, it'll just be the millionth time that a slightly ropey stats package has registered a unique visit, which isn't the same thing at all. But, woo, one million visits is not to be sniffed at! It's the equivalent of the entire population of Birmingham reading my blog once. And it's taken precisely five and a half years to reach the magic million. On average, that's three packed bendy-busfuls of readers every day.
What's quite interesting, to me at least, is to consider how and why all these visitors have arrived here:
• 20% of my visitors arrived here via a search engine. Most of these poor deluded souls no doubt clicked here expecting that my site would yield the answer to some esoteric query, only to be disappointed by what they didn't find. I therefore shouldn't really count these two hundred thousand as true visitors - they arrived here under false pretences. • 35% of my visitors arrived here via another website. That's a third of a million arrivals via someone's else's blogroll, or because something I wrote got mentioned somewhere. I have no idea how many of these people ever came back again. But every click-through is appreciated. • Just under half of my visitors arrived here direct, without clicking through from a search engine or any other website. Which is nice, because it suggests that nearly half a million visits have been deliberate.
Let's explore that second category in a bit more depth. It's time once again for an update of my regular 'league table' of top linking blogs, ordered by volume of visitors clicking here from there. I've also included the 'highest climbers' since my last update (at ¾million) back in June. Thank you all for linking. Go on, go check out a few of the following and return the favour...
There's a real mix of different types of referrer in that list. There are huge blogs with readerships far larger than mine, who mention me occasionally and send scores of clickers gushing through. There are smaller blogs with a tiny 'diamond geezer' link nestling in the blogroll, directing a few passing clickers here every week or perhaps used daily by the blog's owner. And there are dead and dysfunctional blogs, which used to direct people here in large numbers but have since gone to the great 404 error in the sky. It all adds up.
And things are always evolving, as a bit of mouse-over will reveal. Top 10 of the last 12 months: 12345678910
Plus now there's RSS. Hundreds of you now read this blog without ever visiting it, which makes a mockery of attempting to count visitor numbers anyway. I probably passed the million several months ago, but just didn't realise it. Never mind the inexactitude. I don't mind where you come from, I'm just well chuffed that you bother. Hello and thanks to all of you. And here's to the next million...
I always try to keep my laptop running as smoothly as possible. I don't like having lots of unnecessary simultaneous programs up and running, and I try to avoid excessive software multi-tasking. I may want lots of browser windows open, but I don't want three different media players and two streaming torrents battling away in the background. So I'm always particularly annoyed when some multinational software giant insists that its programs are so important that I really must run them anyway, even if I don't want to. And the two worst offenders are both complete A***es.
iTunesHelper.exe: I need iTunes on my computer. I wouldn't be able to upload music and listen to it on the Central line otherwise. But I like to be able to choose when I need iTunes, and I don't want Apple deciding for me. Ah, the evil Quick Time update. Capitulate to its persistent charms and it'll download all sorts of sneaky little preferences onto your machine, whether you want them or not. And I don't want iTunesHelper.exe either. This little demon loads at startup, slowing down my logon <taps fingers>. And all these lengthy shenanigans are merely so that later on, should I want to load iTunes, iTunes loads really fast. Illusory speed later, perhaps, paid for by snail's pace loading now, definitely. It's evil, pure evil.
QTTask.exe: I don't want this one either. I don't want bloody Quick Time access from my system tray, because I don't feel the need to use Apple's foisted software quite so often as they think I ought. I don't want them hijacking all my defaults, and I don't want them checking for updates automatically. What I do want is the option to turn them off on startup, and they don't offer me that. This enforced opt-in is despicable corporate arrogance, and it stinks.
No, it's OK, I have managed to turn both of the above off. I downloaded the very wonderful Startup Inspector program, which checks everything that's loaded on my startup menu (even the secret stuff) and offers me the possibility to disable it. So I've disabled them both. Yah boo sucks to you, Apple.
AppleMobileDeviceService.exe: But I can't turn this one off. Piggybacked onto a Quick Time update, this miserable program kicks in at startup and lies dormant waiting for me to plug in my iPhone. It matters not to Apple that I don't own an iPhone, because this bastardware keeps checking just in case. And if I delve into the heart of the machine and stop the process running, it resurrects itself a few seconds later and sits there smugly in the background once again. Thanks Apple for putting another process on my computer for no reason. Trust me, I will never own an iPhone, especially if this is how you treat your users.
Adobe Acrobat Reader: P. D. F. Three letters to burn fear into the heart of any non-optimal home computer user. Especially the scary phrase "this document is available as a pdf". I know, if I clink on the link, that I'll have time to go and make a cup of tea before Adobe's bloated software loads. Acrobat insists on installing a variety of unnecessary plug-ins, just in case the document I'm loading should be in Icelandic or require animated gif management or something. Er, no, it's just a simple white page with black text, but all these plug-ins upload anyway. Please, make it stop.
Updater: What's this folder doing in my "My Documents" folder? Updater's always empty, but it's always there. Even if I delete it, Adobe puts it back again. I've deleted it <checks Recycle Bin> at least 100 times by now, but it still keeps coming back, empty. Please Adobe, learn to install your gubbins without making a mess in public.
See also... Quick Time Picture Viewer: I don't need yet another photo-viewer thanks, I have enough already. But this program insists on adding itself to every picture-related drop-down menu. Go away. Go away please. LastFMHelper.exe: Sigh. I don't want you to load LastFM every time I load iTunes. I don't need your memory-hogging box of tricks telling me unnecessary facts I already know about every song I play. Stop wasting my bandwidth. Ah, how I long for the golden days of the ever-so simple unobtrusive iScrobbler. etc etc: You probably have more limpetware on your machine. Who will rid us of this turbulent software?
After the chaotic scenes in town over the weekend, echoed in Paris yesterday, the thought must have crossed your mind too. London really can't risk hosting a Torch Relay in four years time. Not on the same global scale as the latest Chinese fiasco. Imagine the damage to our tourist brand collateral if foreign TV viewers started to link British holidays with civil unrest and being hit by batons. Prime Minister Cameron's reputation would never recover from another Torch Relay like this. So we've knocked together a few lower profile alternatives. See what you think. No rush.
Option 1) The Free Tibet Olympic Torch Relay: We run the torch around just one country - Tibet - to make up for all the embarrassment we caused last time. Advantages: The scenery's very nice. Will need to pack oxygen tablets.
Option 2) The Olympic Torch Motorcade: We send all our policemen over to the groves of Olympus in their woo-woo vans, pick up the flame and whizz back along the autobahns really really fast with all lights blazing. Advantages: Over very quickly. Worked well on Sunday.
Option 3) The Green Olympic Torch Relay: It's completely unsustainable to tour the planet by plane whilst burning fossil fuels from a big torch, so let's try it the environmentally friendly way instead. We'll get a six year-old to draw a picture of a flame in orange crayon on a sheet of recycled paper, and then post it round the world by surface mail. Or tied to the leg of a pigeon. Advantages: We could run this as a Blue Peter competition.
Option 4) The Online Olympic Flame: Let's film fifty riot police having fun with a burning torch, then stick the footage on YouTube and see if we can get ten million global web users to view it. Advantages: We could disguise the weblink as a Rick Astley video, that usually works.
Option 5) Ye Olde Olympic Torch Relaye: We could keep costs to a minimum by thinking nationally, not globally. Scale things down so that the torch only tours Britain. Especially all the places up north who don't think they're going to see any benefits from the Games. We could even employ local jobless people as torchbearers. Advantages: It's how Olympic Torch Relays used to be done. It's heritage.
Option 6) The Olympic Backpacker Gap Year: Find an MP with college-age offspring and get them to carry the flame around the world in their rucksack. Maybe use a chain of lighted spliffs to circle the world. Advantages: We can probably get this trip paid for on expenses.
Option 7) The Morally Upright Olympic Torch Relay: We run the torch through all the nations of the world with an unblemished human rights record. Advantages: Current estimates suggest that'd just be Wales.
Option 8) The Olympic Nuclear Option: Rather than visiting scores of other countries with the Olympic torch, one by one, we could save a lot time by simultaneously firing a nuclear missile at each one. Mmm, watch the flames burn. Advantages: Unless we use them soon, all our Trident missiles will soon be past their sell-by date.
Option 9) Le Relay du Torche Olympique: We do France. We take the torch round every last ville, village and rue. Touring the country by bike would be just fantastique. Advantages: 2012, ce n'est pas votre année.
Option 10) The El Cheapo Option: Tell you what Seb, I'll buy a cigarette lighter and I'll see you at the Olympic cauldron on 27th July 2012. Don't be late.
Beijing Olympic Torch Relay 2008 Stop 4: London Light the passion, share the dream
Light the passion? Well they got that right. As for sharing the dream, it was more of a nightmare to be honest. Fiery protests, Tibetan temperatures, dodgy scheduling, blatant marketing and rampantsecurity. I think there were some sporting ideals lost in the middle too. Still, I bet an awful lot of police officers got an awful lot of overtime. Here are four snapshots from along the way.
British Museum (12 noon) There were masses of pro-Tibet protesters at the British Museum. Just up the road to be precise, in Bloomsbury Square, safely corralled up a side street so that they could shout at the passing parade from behind a helmeted cordon without getting in the way. Probably a thousand or so angry individuals, waving Tibetan flags and yelling slogans at any official vehicle with the temerity to sweep by. The Coca Cola bus got it in the neck first. "Stop the torture!" And then the grinning Samsung girls gyrating on the back of a lorry. "Stop the killing!" There followed a long noisy pause before the official Olympic double decker crawled into view. "Shame on China! Free Tibet!" The torch waited patiently, somewhere inside the bus, before crawling forward in front of the growling mob. Flags fluttered and balloons bobbed, while the chorus of angry voices grew ever louder. Many of these belonged to Tibetans themselves, or to a sincere throng of woolly-hat wearers and Guardian readers. The bloke in front of me began booing anything and everything that passed. It was when he started deliberately booing a group of Chinese athletes that I started to feel distinctly uncomfortable. There's a thin line between rightful protest and naked racism, and I feared he'd crossed it. Thankfully he seemed to be in a deluded minority. I slunk off, past a Chinese protester being apprehended by the police. Doubly disappointing. When 2012 comes round, we shouldn't be surprised when the world turns round and spits back at us.
Trafalgar Square (1pm) Here's how not to hold a successful public event. Invite everyone to turn up at noon, when the main event's at one. Don't erect a stage, just get your performers to dance around at ground level so that only a select few on the edge of the terrace can see what's going on. Pick a bloody cold day, preferably with snow, and then waste money by adding blue tickertape snow of your own. Get a white-haired ITN newscaster to wield the torch, then hide him inside a crowd of jogging minders so that onlookers are shielded from the one thing they've come to see. Watch the faces of the native Chinese community who are here to feel proud, and see their disappointment. And fill the square with branded advertising collateral, and attempt to hand it out to innocent spectators by pretending it's nothing more than a balloon or a flag. I was particularly disappointed by the flags. On the front a small "Beijing 2008" logo overshadowed by the big blue blob of the Korean "presenting partner", and on the rear a great big corporate logo on a featureless blue background. These shameless adverts were being handed out all along the route by opportunistic marketeers. I still have my unbranded 2004 torch relay flag. I recycled my 2008 flag immediately.
Somerset House (2:15pm) I thought I'd go and watch one of the set piece celebrations along the route. Not the great big multicultural spectacle on the South Bank, but the rather smaller affair inside Somerset House. I got there a bit too early, and had to stand around for half an hour in the courtyard feeling increasingly cold as yet another snow shower swirled around us. The crowd never grew too large, which we discovered later was because we'd been sealed inside behind closed iron gates. "Could you hold up the rope?" asked one of the insufficient security guards attempting to keep us well back. We declined. First into the makeshift arena, at last, came the Bollywood Brass Band. They were more Yorkshire fancy dress than Delhi realism, to be honest, but a rousing success all the same. And then 60 small schoolchildren filed out from the Seamen's Hall, jiggling up and down to keep themselves warm in the April chill. They were wearing waterproof red plastic capes, which are an essential fashion item when you're about to leap and dance amongst a courtyard filled with fountains. Unfortunately several of the children ran across the gushing jets and soaked the inside of their costume, while the lack of sleeves meant that most of their arm movements remained invisible. We loved the spectacle, however improvised the choreography, and the performers well deserved their final ovation. And finally the torch arrived, held high by a leggy blonde, hanging around for only a few seconds before continuing into the seething protests outside. But we at least, through the eyes of children, had seen the true Olympic message.
Bow Road (4pm) The good citizens of E3 appeared to have forgotten that the torch was passing through. But as four o'clock approached, and the buzz of helicopters filled the sky overhead, a few headed down to Bow Road to watch the flame go by. Many were of Chinese origin, here to watch a potent symbol from the motherland passing along their local street. The vicar was out with his camera, having set his bell ringers the task of welcoming the flame to Bow (or maybe he just pressed a button inside the tower, it was hard to be sure). And there were no protesters whatsoever, not this far out of town. What could go wrong? The road to the flyover suddenly cleared of traffic and a very large number of police motorbikes zoomed past. And a van, and another van, and the Coca Cola open-topped bus. Was the flame aboard? We didn't think so. Those grinning Samsung girls were next, keeping up their professional act as they danced for a crowd who almost certainly couldn't afford a widescreen telly like the one on the float. And then silence. Was that it?
Thankfully not. After a brief interlude of ordinary vehicles, the empty road reappeared. Yet more police outriders whizzed by, as if every motorcycle copper in the capital was having a whale of a time breaking the speed limit in 10 different boroughs in one day. And then a 4×4, and a couple of vans, and a single-decker red bus. I'd seen this procession several times before, so I knew the single-decker was just a support vehicle packed with bottles of Coke and Malvern Water. More vans followed, and the TV crew lorry, and another single-decker bus, and a luxury coach, and some more vans. Still we scanned the road for sight of any open-topped vehicle that might be carrying a beaming athlete waving a torch. None appeared, only a steady stream of very normal looking traffic. It very slowly dawned on us, with a distinctly sinking feeling, that the flame had already passed. Bugger. It must have been concealed inside one of the unflagged single-deckers, by now at least half a mile away on the road to Stratford. The vicar and I shared a look, as if to say "pah!", and walked away. Here we were, a community on the very edge of the Olympic Zone, and the authorities had sped by without acknowledging our existence or even attempting to include us as part of the celebrations. I do hope that this isn't a sign of things to come in 2012, but I fear it might be.
When researching yesterday's map of independent London bookshops, it soon became apparent that there were several independent London bookshops I'd never heard of, let alone visited. In fact they might not have existed at all. Several of them didn't have a website, and it's hard to prove that things exist without a website. So I thought I'd visit a few, just to check. I could have visited loads more, except that touring London orbitally took absolutely ages.
1) The Roundabout Bookshop: 370 Mare Street, Hackney E8 1HR What was I expecting? Hmm, a bookshop on Hackney's main shopping street. Let's say that my hopes weren't high. What did I find? A newsagent, with a few books in the window. Not best sellers, but some local interest stuff. And inside? Definitely a newsagent, and not a particularly friendly one. "This is not a library. Please do not read here." And up the back, past the counter, a few shelves filled with not terribly up-to-date books. Including a Rupert Bear annual. And a big sign saying "Closing Down Sale". I can't say I was surprised. What was the service like? Brief. What did I buy? A newspaper.
2) West End Lane Books: 277 West End Lane, West Hampstead NW6 1QS What was I expecting? Not sure. The website is mostly blank pages, and for some reason I've never visited this part of town before. What did I find? Ooh, a lovely compact bookshop, all wooden surfaces and temptingly-stocked shelves. The selection is just the right side of mainstream, with some intriguingly oblique volumes, and a nod towards books that make you think. A fair scattering of Jewish themes too. This felt a friendly place to browse and flick and peruse, and there was a definite come-back-again atmosphere. Recommended. What was the service like? Smiley and charming. What did I buy?The English Year by Steve Roud (£9.99)
3) Willesden Bookshop: Willesden Green Library Centre, 95 High Road NW10 4QU What was I expecting? A multicultural children's bookshop. That's how the website makes it sound, anyway. What did I find? A rather modern ambience, in a corner of Brent's main brick-y block-y library. Some carefully-selected bestsellers around a central table, plus several neat shelves on diverse topics. Quite a lot of worldy wise fiction, a fair amount of travel stuff, and a whole rack of spiritual, mystic and paranormal paperbacks. And the children's section lived up to expectations. What was the service like? Indifferent. What did I buy?Pies and Prejudice by Stuart Maconie (£6.99)
4) World's End Bookshop: 357 King's Road, Chelsea SW3 5ES What was I expecting? "An extensive variety of new and second hand books." Which is all that any of those spammy listings websites could tell me. What did I find? A claustrophobic second hand bookshop, not first hand in any way. Two wings, utterly rammed with piled-high old books, including plenty of ex-library stock. I had to mind where I walked, there were piles on the floor too. When I knelt down to inspect the lower shelves of British travel guides, I accidentally trapped the elderly gentleman perusing the historical books behind me. I think he escaped without knocking everything over. What was the service like? A cheerful but distant bloke sat behind the central desk, jotting down every purchase in a ruled blue ledger. I wonder if the strange poetry in the free (photocopied and tippexed) copy of "The World's End Mag" was his. I suspect so. What did I buy? London's Churches by Elizabeth & Wayland Young (£3) (ex Battersea Library, 1986)
5) My Back Pages: 8-10 Station Road, Balham SW12 9SG What was I expecting? A second hand book shop with some first hand books. What did I find? An even more crowded shop than the last one. Closely packed shelves, topped with precarious stacks, squeezed into a long thin split-level space. When other customers stopped to scan the shelves I was unable to move around. Plenty of proper old books - including those red/blue-spined hardbacks much beloved of mid 20th century publishing. And, yes, the odd new paperback scattered around in the relevant section as a tempting treat, but not many. What was the service like? The cash desk was so well screened and camouflaged that it was easy to miss. My purchase had a £6 sticker on the front cover but, as it turned out, the intended £9.95 pencilled inside. The owner charged me six quid anyway. That's my sort of shop. Let's hope it survives. What did I buy?A Guide to the Small Museums of Britain by Christine Redington (£6)
I'm trying to create a map of Londonbookshops. The independent ones (so no Waterstones or Borders/Books Etc). The non-specialist ones (so no Stanfords or Grant & Cutler). The ones that sell first-hand, not second-hand (so no Ripping Yarns or Skoob). Those small-ish friendly bookshops with knowledgeable assistants who can flog you a Richard and Judy or order you an obscure Ian McEwan. There must be more in London than I've found so far. Can you help me out? [permalink]
Wahey, the Olympic torchcomes to London this weekend. It's chugging round the capital on Sunday, following a rather more ambitious route than it did four years ago. Ah, now that was a sight. If you fancy following the flame in 2008 (with or without placard), here's my approximate guide to where to go.
10:30 Wembley: Actually, don't bother turning up here unless you're a Brent resident and you've got a ticket. The event's in Arena Square, and not inside the stadium where you might expect it to be. And could someone please teach the official Torch Relay website how to spell Harlesden? And then by bus (yes, bus) to... 11:00 Ladbroke Grove & Notting Hill: A bit of symbolic multiculturalism as a very-mini-Carnival cheers on the runners. Let's hope it isn't snowing too ferociously by now. Then some cyclists carry the torch along the top of Hyde Park (probably a good place to jump into the road and wave your pro-Tibet banner) to... 12:00 Oxford Street: Back to an open-topped bus, for the full length of this disinterested shopping street, as far as the British Museum. Let's hope the curator doesn't nick the torch and stick it on show with our other foreign booty. Then jogging athletes take over again, through Soho to 12:30 Chinatown: Obviously. With dragons. 12:50 Trafalgar Square: Probably one of the busiest spots on the run, so a good opportunity for the Torch Relay's greedysponsors to hand out advertising freebies to grinning children. Who the hell are Lenovo anyway? Then a sprint down Whitehall to 13:00 Downing Street: Gordon Brown grits his teeth and welcomes envoys from another nation with a dismal human rights record, before the flame heads down to Westminster Pier and goes for a jolly jaunt on the Thames to 13:30 South Bank: Waiting here will be youngsters celebrating with arty singing, beatboxing and hiphop (really, it's all very Olympic, honest). I hope they still can be heard above the roar of the security choppers whirring overhead. And then a slow run via Somerset House to 14:45 St Paul's Cathedral: Ooh, bagpipes. It's a real cultural smorgasbord this cross-capital journey, isn't it? Back on the bus to cross London Bridge to 15:00 Tibet: No, sorry, I'm lying. 15:15 City Hall: One of the last events to take place at the seat of London's civic administration, before Mayor Boris sells off the glass building as a terribly desirable apartment block (with gym and concierge). Time to run across Tower Bridge to Tower Hamlets... 15:45-ish Whitechapel Road: The torch will probably be running woefully late by now, so don't blink or you'll miss it. Here we're promised spectacular performances from "the Emperor and the Tiger". And then up High Street 2012, by bus, to 16:08 My house!! Blimey, it's the Olympic torch! Right outside my front door! The flame may be on its way to Beijing, via the world, but it has to go past my chicken nugget-strewn doorstep first. I am duly honoured. 16:15 Stratford: There's no visit to ourOlympic Stadium, not this year, but the host borough of Newham are throwing a really big street party. Might be fun. And then, unbelievably, the Olympic flame hitches a ride on the DLR (in direct contravention of DLR Conditions of Carriage Section 4 subsection 5) to 17:00 Canary Wharf: Here's the face-painting. You knew there had to be face-painting somewhere. And jugglers and stilt walkers and probably some scary clowns too. And finally back to the river for a boat trip round the Thames's loopy meander to 18:00 North Greenwich: Sssh, don't call it the Dome. Ssssh, don't call it the <insert name of mobile network>. And don't bother coming to the cauldron-lighting acrobatic finale in the Square if you didn't get free tickets. I didn't get free tickets. I wonder how many Tibetan protesters got free tickets. April 7th Paris: Rubbing salt in the wounds a bit, innit?
On posters, on leaflets, and over the tannoy. Saturation coverage. A desperate attempt by TfL to keep the travelling public away from a pair of congested City stations while they upgrade the ageing escalators. The warren of tunnels linking the various platforms is ridiculously complicated and tortuous at the best of times, and any attempt at interchange often involves a five minute mountaineering trek. But from Monday this week, for the next 70 weeks, no interchange is possible.
"No interchange at Bank and Monument stations until August 2009 During major escalator upgrade and replacement work you will not be able to interchange at Bank and Monument stations (except between the DLR and Northern lines)"
Well, so it says in the ¼million leaflets they've had printed. But, what do you know, this turns out to be a whopping white lie. I've been down into the bowels of the station, for two consecutive rush hours, and interchanging wasn't impossible at all. A bit circuitous and inconvenient maybe, but still considerably faster than using some of the ridiculous roundabout routes via alternative stations that various leaflets are proposing. TfL would probably rather I didn't tell you the following...
Interchange 1: Central(Bank) → Northern(Bank) Normally this interchange (3→9) can be made without ever using an escalator. A quick dash down the spiral staircase (from 3), a walk along a long passageway (to 7) and down some steps (9). Not any more. The spiral staircase is closed ("to avoid overcrowding") and there's only one exit from the Central line platforms (3). I had no choice - it had to be up the escalator and out through the barriers into the ticket hall (1). Not surprisingly, the ticket hall was quite crowded. Even more crowded was the unfit-for-purpose narrow passageway between the ticket hall (1) and the Lombard Street entrance (4). Then it was back through the barriers and a choice of routes back down into the depths. Either to wait for one of the four lifts (it's not exactly high capacity, this) or to walk 128 kneecap-numbing steps down the clunky 16-flight metal staircase. Phew. And after this very long up and down slog, where was I? In the big tiled chamber (7) just above the Northern line platforms (9). If only TfL had left the lower passageway open (3→7) I could have walked here in just a minute. But no, they sent me up an escalator, along an alleyway and down in a lift. Is it just me, or is this meandering detour actually serving only to increase congestion all around the station?
Interchange 2: DLR(Bank) → District(Monument) I decided to attempt this interchange (8→11) because it should now be an utter nightmare. Bank and Monument stations have been severed, so this particular connection should involve heading the long way up to daylight at Bank (8→6→5→4), walking along King William Street (4→13) and then re-entering the system at Monument (13). Ten minutes, minimum. And yes, the direct escalator (8→12) is now boarded up. But I nipped up from the DLR to the Northern line (8→9) and, what a surprise, this exit to Monument was still open! The escalator (9→10) was still running, both ways! No blocked-off barriers at all, just straight up the quick way to the District line (11). Two minutes, maximum. Bloody liars! The Bank/Monument interchange IS STILL OPEN. TfL haven't cut the link between the two stations at all. They probably will at some point, but in the meantime they're just scaring passengers away for no particularly good reason. They're delighting in sending those of us who use the station scurrying round an ever-changing maze of one-way tunnels like rats in a laboratory maze. And they clearly want to piss us off so much that we go somewhere else, anywhere else but here. For 70 weeks. I feel deliberately misguided.
So, next time TfL tell you to avoid changing at Bank/Monument because no interchange is possible, do treat their urgings with a huge pinch of salt. Because there's plenty of interchange. I'm sure that telling fibs helps to keep TfL's health and safety people happy, but these two stations aren't as dead and buried as we're being told. Only one set of escalators is currently closed, and all the other disruption is due to blocked-off passageways and one-way systems. Why not come and find out for yourself?
Coinage quiz: Britain's decimal coinage is changing. Over the next few months a brand new coin series will start trickling into your pocket, and the Royal Mint has just released the new designs. Ooh, that's quite a clever interpretation of the Royal Coat of Arms, isn't it? I rather like them. But how well do you know the old set of coins, in circulation since 1971? Test yourself by selecting the correct design for each coin, and then check your answers in the final drop-down box.
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Famous London: The Big Ben Hello my name is Trevor. When we think of London it is impossible to do without The Big Ben. This is a large tower built by the fair hand of Queen Victoria, and it sticks up in the middle of the city to be seen far and wide. The Big Ben is even taller than the Taj Mahal, and we all know how big that is. And The Big Ben is brown. Not many famous world towers are brown, so this makes it very special indeed. All the senators and lords who run the country live in The Big Ben, and they meet every day in a big room on the top floor to pass the laws of the land. Then at eleven o'clock precisely bong! The ringing of The Big Ben calls the royal horses from the stables for the Changing of Guard. Her Majesty Elizabeth stands on her balcony and decides which of her guards she wants to change. The losing ones have to go back to work as poor people, and the new ones win a furry hat.
If you go to London you must always have your photograph taken with The Big Ben. This is the law. Every day visitors go to West Minister to stand by the red telephone box with the best view. Sometimes the queues are three miles long. But the wait is always worth while, and how we love to see the photographic results in emails and blogs worldwide. No trip to London is complete without a walk to the top of The Big Ben. There are 3000 steps to the viewing platform just above the clock, or you can take the escalators. From the top there are panoramic views over London almost as far as Stonehenge, and you can buy tea towels and marmalade from the special souvenir shop. All this for just 250 rupees! Oh yes, The Big Ben, it is special indeed.
Eat London: The Taj Sahib Restaurant Hello my name is Miriam. I know readers of the Geezer are always wondering where to have dinner. Well wonder no longer. There is a great restaurant in Bricklane and it is called the Taj Sahib. You cannot miss it. It's the one with two men standing outside inviting you urgently inside. Be welcomed to your seat with a warming naan, and rest your weary slippers. Two for one offers and special deals are always available at the Taj Sahib. Curry is a speciality, of course, and the balti is hot and spicy. And we have an excellent bonus for you. Just tell my cousin Jahar that you have seen this review on the Geezer and he will give you extra chapatis. And he will give me new bicycle if enough of you go, so please go.
But be careful when you visit. The streets of London are full of the hoodie youth and girls with knives. It is inhuman and it is sad and we are reading about it all the time in the foreign press. We do not understand why the youth are breaking down like this but maybe it is the free oyster and the bendy bus. It must be very scary for you, oh people of London. So be sure to go to Bricklane when all the devil's children are at school. Or maybe wait a few more months and they will all have been locked up in the Tower of London. Or sacrificed.
Transport Talking Point: Chaos on Line 2 Hello my name is Lionel. There is only one transport topic in the office this week and that is the terrible conditions at Vishwa Vidyalaya Underground Station. Honestly, do they think we're goats or something? The overcrowding is really severe, especially when Delhi University lectures finish and all the students come pouring out. Several people have been seen climbing onto the train roof, which is in direct contravention of Metro Rail Corporation regulations paragraph 14b. The situation on Line 2 is getting intolerable.
Yesterday there were huge queues at the smart-card gates, and when the General Secretariat train came it was packed. I had to squeeze in between an old man carrying a stuffed tiger and a lady with a giant embroidered bag. By the time the train reached Kashmere Gate I'd lost all sensation in my left arm, and by Patel Chowk I was semi-comatose. If it's like this now, imagine how it'll be when the monsoon comes and everyone smells of umbrella.
Ask Geezer: interactive customer hotline Hello my name is Rita. Now at Geezer we try to answer your London questions. Press 1 for questions about Buckingham Place, press 2 for questions about Harrods, and press 3 for all other questions. I am sorry but I did not understand your request please try again.
লন্ডন লন্ডনের দুটি দূরবর্তী বিন্দুর মধ্যবর্তী সর্বোচ্চ দূরত্ব প্রায় ৩০ মাইল। এর আয়তন ১৬১০ বর্গ কিমি (৬২০ বর্গ মা)। এই সুবৃহৎ শহরাঞ্চলটি ৩৩টি রাজনৈতিক এককে বিভক্ত। কেন্দ্রে অবস্থিত সিটি অফ লন্ডন ছাড়াও রয়েছে অধীনস্থ ৩২টি বরো। কেন্দ্রীয় অঞ্চলটিকে মধ্য লন্ডন নামে ডাকা হয় যার বেশির ভাগ অঞ্চলই টেম্স নদীর উত্তরে একটি মৃদুমন্দ ঢালু এলাকায় অবস্থিত। এই ঢালুটি আবার আরও উত্তর দিকে গিয়ে উঠতে শুরু করেছে। ৩৩টি রাজনৈতিক এককের মধ্যে ১২টিই এই মধ্যভাগে অবস্থিত যার মধ্যে রয়েছে সিটি অফ লন্ডন, সিটি অফ ওয়েস্টমিন্স্টার এবং পশ্চিম প্রান্তের জেলাসমূহ। সিটি অফ লন্ডন হচ্ছে লন্ডন শহরের প্রথাগত ও রাজনৈতিক কেন্দ্র আর সিটি অফ ওয়েস্টমিন্স্টার হল জাতীয় সরকারের দফ্তর ও মূল আসন। যতই প্রান্তের দিকে যাওয়া যায় জীবনযাত্রার উচ্চ মান ও চাকচিক্য ততই কমতে থাকে।
London Mayoral Debate 2012
They returned to the carriage-drive of City Hall to find a shiny new Routemaster, of enormous expense, painted a bright red (Toad's favourite colour), standing in front of the entrance. As they neared the door it was flung open, and Mr. Toad, arrayed in goggles, cap, gaiters, and enormous overcoat, came swaggering down the ramp, drawing on his gauntleted gloves.
Environment: Henley is genuinely charming. A historic riverside town with half-timbered cottages, leafy water meadows and an uncloned high street. Rather like London would be if you wiped out everywhere that was a bit Hackney and replaced it with something rather more Richmond. I think Boris would approve.
Sport: There are no disaffected youth on the streets of Henley. That's because they're all on the river instead, sculling and stroking while some social worker with a bike stands on the towpath yelling instructions at them through a megaphone. Even the very littlest are busy dragon boating. Why can't London's youngsters do the same?
Culture: Boris presides over such cultural highlights as Dusty Springfield's grave
, a museum of rowing boats and an annual arts festival featuring Lesley Garrett and the Gipsy Kings. Isn't entertainment of this calibre what every Londoner wants?
One glimpse at the final medal table, seen here on the walls of the BBC's Media Village in White City, shows the full extent of our "sporting excellence". We didn't just beat the rest of the world, we thrashed them. We won almost as many medals as the rest of the world put together (perhaps because, at that time, only 23 nice upstanding countries with decent chaps got invited). We won all the gold medals in the lawn tennis and the boxing and the yachting and the rowing. We won the football and the hockey and the polo and the tug-of-war. And we were the only country to enter the Racquets competition, so not surprisingly we won that too. Bit suspicious, innit?
You can see one of these dubious gold medals on display in Henley's fascinating River and Rowing Museum. They've also got a blade from the same race, inscribed with the names of the eight victorious oarsmen, and a rather ornate commemorative programme. No mention of an apology from the Leander club, however.
Why is the latest London Underground tubemap sponsored by IKEA? That's 1672 wall-mounted maps at stations, each with a huge IKEA advert slapped across the bottom. That's six million pocket maps, distributed between now and next March, their back covers emblazoned with a big Nordic slogan. And that's four million Oyster wallets, no longer sky-blue but Swedish yellow, being flashed across London's ticket gates for the foreseeable future. Oh very clever Herr IKEA, very clever indeed. But why? Why attempt to brand the tubemap, when your stores aren't exactly tubemap-station friendly?
As dawn breaks over this blessed plot, the people of England are waking up to our very first St George's Day Bank Holiday. This officially recognised day of national rejoicing has long been awaited by the patriots of our blessed realm. And now their gallant and iron-willed campaigning has finally come to fruition. Throughout the country Little Englanders will be enjoying a rare day off work to celebrate their national identity with a pint, a picnic basket and (more than likely) an umbrella. Hey nonny no. Let's party!
The tale of Coventry's motor manufacturing past is told in the brand new multi-million pound Transport Museum. It's part of a millennial makeoever of the northern city centre, complete with granite plaza, spiralling glass walkway and twin boomerang-shaped arches (in honour of Frank Whittle, father of the jet engine). A most impressive setting, even in the rain. And an unexpectedly impressive museum too, with free admission to boot. The opening gallery contains a collection of landmark bikes and veteran motor vehicles, most around a century old, and all designed and made in Coventry. Rover, Hillman, Daimler, Alvis, Singer and Triumph - all household names in their time, and all being fussed over by a variety of older visitors as I passed.
At the rear of the building, in a darkened room, is the Thrust 2 vehicle which broke the world land speed record in 1983. It's huge, more a wheeled rocket than a car, and is curiously dated by the sponsors' adverts plastered all over the side (Faberge "Turbo" fragrance for men, anyone?). In the next room is its successor ThrustSSC, plus an extremely popular walk-on speed simulator, but alas the attendant closed off the entrance just as I walked round the corner. A room full of model cars didn't quite suffice, even if I did enjoy picking out my favourite Matchbox Hot Wheels amongst the collection. Several full-sized modern cars follow, plus an extensive collection of locally-sourced motorbikes and scooters, and an exhibition explaining precisely how bicycles developed.
» Bridge number 1: This little brick humpback is the smallest bridge on the canal system. It's deliberately narrow with no towpath for security reasons, allowing the canal's owners to lock up the basin overnight with a single wooden barrier.
It's one of the ten largest cities in England. It's centuries older than its upstart Brummie neighbour. It's famous for 2 Tone records, car manufacturing and naked ladies on horseback. It suffered terribly during World War Two, and some would argue equally terribly at the hands of the post-war planners. It's the UK city that's furthest from the sea. It's Coventry, and I went sightseeing there yesterday. No, really, there was just enough to fill a day out. Who'd have thought?
The second cathedral survived until 14th November 1940, on which night Coventry received the full attention of the Luftwaffe and suffered extreme widespread bomb damage. Fires spread uncontrollably from the roof of the cathedral, and by morning only a rubble-filled charred shell remained.
And so to cathedral number three. The opportunity to design a very modern replacement was given to Basil Spence, and the Queen popped along to lay the foundation stone in 1956. It's certainly in striking contrast to the original, and highly unusual in that it faces north-south rather than east-west. Old and new cathedrals meet across an elevated porch above St Michael's Lane
Entrance to the new cathedral is through a tiny sidedoor past the information desk (unless you're royalty, in which case presumably they let you in through the ceremonial doors in the multi-storey window etched with angels). And, wow. This is no characterless aircraft hangar, this is a vast spiritual space lit by streams of vibrant daylight. Closest to the south door is the curved Baptistry Window, an amazing wall of stained glass
Don't miss your opportunity
We were treated first to an update on the state of the Olympic Park. I was already well aware how far advanced the preparations were, having been up on the Greenway bridge taking my monthly photo less than two hours earlier. More than 75% of the entire park has already been demolished, and the stadium site itself now resembles a flattened earth bowl dotted with the occasional digger. We were told how thousands of native fish, insects and amphibians have already been "translocated", in readiness for their offspring to return to refreshed waterways once the legacy phase kicks in. And as for the 52 pylons currently scattered across the site, they'll be coming down later this year and all the cables threaded underground.
The stadium will take full advantage of the natural slope of the land by having two very distinct ground levels. All the service roads and the arena floor will be tucked away down at towpath level, approached from the south and west, while all the spectators will wander around 6m higher up at podium level, approached from the north and east. The architects have also taken full advantage of the stadium's "island" setting (two sides river, one side sewer). Once spectators have made it over the footbridges and onto the "podium island", they'll be free to wander in and out of the stadium or around the surrounding plazas where all the food and services will be based. Please, begged our audience, please make as much of the food as possible locally sourced and not that heart-stopping fat-dripping multinational burger crap. Only time will tell whether or not our voice is heard.
I really struggled to find somewhere famous in Redbridge. Somewhere celebrated, notable and world-renowned. Erm, no, I couldn't think of one either. So in the end I gave up on a location and settled on a person instead. And Britons don't come much more famous than Sir Winston Churchill. He never lived here, but he did represent the constituency of Woodford (and Wanstead) for nearly 35 years. It wasn't his first choice of constituency either. Winston started out in Oldham (elected 1900), then moved rapidly on to Manchester (elected 1906) and Dundee (elected 1908). In 1924, after three successive defeats elsewhere, he ended up as the "Independent Constitutionalist anti-Socialist" MP for Epping. And it was from this constituency base that he became Chancellor, and Prime Minister, and indeed Much Loved Saviour Of The Island Race. In the post-war election of 1945 the constituency was split in two, so Churchill plumped for Woodford and stayed on almost until his death. During this period the lucky Premier was bestowed with the Freedom of Wanstead and Woodford - a rare honour indeed - and often popped into the Eagle at Snaresbrook for a pint with the locals. Probably not as often as they'd have liked, though. In 1959 a grateful constituency paid £5000 to erect a larger than life bronze statue on Woodford Green. It was unveiled by Field Marshall Viscount Montgomery, and initially required a 24 hour police guard as a precaution against practical jokers. And Churchill's still there, up by the bus stop on the High Road, at the tip of the village green. A splendid avenue of mighty trees stretches up Salway Hill behind him as, with bronze hand resting on bronze coattails, he surveys the constituency that still reveres his name.
On the edge of London, with rolling Green Belt beyond, is a wonderfully ordinary British High Street. No Starbucks has yet infiltrated, and no out-of-town mall has sucked the independent retailers dry. It's Barkingside High Street - half a mile of proper shopping from Geezer's barbershop in the north down to Chequers Fruit and Veg in the south. And, perhaps of greatest interest, "many of the buildings along the high street are owned by entrepreneur Alan Sugar". So it says on Wikipedia anyway, although with a niggling "citation needed" added as a pedantic superscript, so it may not actually be true. I took a Saturday stroll amongst the Redbridge shoppers to see if I could determine which classy independent retail outlets might be Suralan's. Danny's Pie and Mash, surely, offering all day breakfasts and Great British Dinners at knockdown prices. Styles Ahead, obviously, a beauty parlour from which near-Essex ladies emerge shampooed, re-clawed and browned off. Rossi Bros ice cream parlour, possibly, its frozen produce utterly enticing for those not adhering to restrictive diets. The Mayfair stationers, perchance, given that most of Sir Alan's property portfolio lurks in W1, not IG6. Yosi's Gourmet Bagels, maybe, its chocolate coloured doors long since locked and shuttered down. Panache ladies outfitters, potentially, now under new management and selling blouses for a tenner or less. The Chubby Panda Chinese restaurant, perhaps, offering 10% discount on takeaways but now closed on Mondays. The Barnardo's charity shop, conceivably, because this charity's UK HQ is based in the heritage village at the bottom of the road. Or my very favourite, The Cheesecake Shop, from which guilty feeders emerged grinning onto the pavement stuffed with torte, gateau, mudcake, pavlova or meringue. This is how shopping ought to be. I await with anticipation the first episode of The Apprentice to be filmed here.
Now you might think I'm scraping the barrel with a visit to the home ground of Ilford FC, currently scraping the bottom of Ryman League Division One. But ah no, I know a major sporting venue when I see one, and this athletics stadium east of Ilford is just that. It may look little more than a six-lane track behind the pay and display at Ilford Swimming Pool, with a couple of goalposts and an empty grandstand, hemmed in by houses and a cemetery. But ah no, this unassuming backwater is in fact an international Olympic arena. Or at least it was, briefly, at the last London Games in 1948. The England team played a couple of first round matches here in deepest Ilford, the first a glorious two-one victory over Luxembourg and the second a pitiful two-nil loss against France. Not a great year for English football medals, 1948. And best not to mention the only other international football match to take place here at Cricklefield - a friendly against West Germany in 1957 which we lost drei-zwei. Last Saturday's league fixture against Wingate & Finchley was a rather more mundane affair. I arrived in time for the early preparations, with the commemorative iron gates unlocked to admit the eager and the tracksuited. The team gathered slowly on the terraces, noisily warming up for the afternoon's travails. In the spartan clubhouse kitchen six packets of white baps were piled up on a plastic table, awaiting transformation into £3.20 egg and bacon burgers. And what do you know, the league's bottom club managed a home win that afternoon, easing themselves almost (but not quite) out of the relegation zone. Never let anyone tell you that Olympic sporting facilities won't be well used by the local community during the legacy phase.
One of the grandest houses ever seen in Britain was built in Wanstead in the early 18th century. Wanstead House was a pioneer of Palladian style, with mighty Corinthian pillars and a 200ft-long frontage. The gardens were landscaped with tree-lined avenues and ornamental waterways, creating a spectacular Versailles-like estate. A mixture of Blenheim Palace and Hampton Court, if you like, and much favoured by the nobles and gentry of the Georgian era. So why have you never heard of Wanstead House, let alone visited? Because it's been completely demolished, that's why, leaving only the surrounding parkland as evidence of magnificence lost. And the tale of its disappearance is worthy of a modern day soap opera.
• This Green is a lovely reminder of Wanstead's rural past: Indeed it is, but it's all an illusion. The A12 dual carriageway was carved straight through the middle of Wanstead in the late 1990s, like a concrete scar. But for a few hundred metres it's been hidden in a tunnel, directly underneath the village green, and you'd never realise what a complete mess the road made everywhere else.
You're probably not 100% certain where Redbridge is, are you? It's not got a terribly memorable name, and this isn't helped by it being named after a red brick bridge which was knocked down in 1921. The anonymous borough of Redbridge lurks on the edge of northeast London, consisting of Ilford, the M11 corridor and vast swathes of mid 20th century suburban estates. This is affordable London, home to thousands of very ordinary families, and not in any way on the tourist trail. I was quite worried that there wouldn't be enough out here to report back on, but in the end I was very pleasantly surprised.
See that big orange loop at the eastern end of the Central line? That's Redbridge, that is. Apart from the three really quiet stations at the top which are in Essex, so I didn't have an excuse to alight at Roding Valley, Chigwell or Grange Hill. But I visited all the others, and a few of them are very special indeed. This end of the Central line opened in the late 1940s, delayed somewhat by munitions factories being operated in the tunnels during WWII. Many of the stations were converted from LNER operation, and still retain a period charm not entirely wrecked by Metronet. White wooden canopies, well-worn solid benches and decorative ironwork - all a million miles away from the modern brutality of certain central London stations. Fairlop
At Newbury Park the impressive feature is outside the station, not down on the unremarkable platforms. Exit from the ticket hall along a long brick corridor and you emerge into a bus station like no other. This interchange building, with its long barrel-vaulted roof topped with copper, makes a mighty modernist statement
Random borough (17): Woohoo, halfway at last! Time yet again for me to take another random trip to one of London's 33 boroughs. As I write I have no idea which one of the 17 remaining borough names will be revealed when I unfold the slip of paper I'm about to pick from my "special jamjar". I could pick any of London's other boroughs - inner or outer, urban or suburban, small or large, fascinating or dull. I just know it won't be Merton, Islington, Enfield, Sutton, Lewisham, Southwark, Kensington & Chelsea, Hackney, Hillingdon, the City, Bromley, Lambeth, Tower Hamlets, Haringey, Hounslow or Brent because they're the sixteen (dark grey) boroughs I've picked out already.
Option 1) The Free Tibet Olympic Torch Relay: We run the torch around just one country - Tibet - to make up for all the embarrassment we caused last time.
There were masses of pro-Tibet protesters at the British Museum. Just up the road to be precise, in Bloomsbury Square, safely corralled up a side street so that they could shout at the passing parade from behind a helmeted cordon without getting in the way. Probably a thousand or so angry individuals, waving Tibetan flags and yelling slogans at any official vehicle with the temerity to sweep by. The Coca Cola bus got it in the neck first. "Stop the torture!" And then the grinning Samsung girls gyrating on the back of a lorry. "Stop the killing!" There followed a long noisy pause before the official Olympic double decker crawled into view. "Shame on China! Free Tibet!" The torch waited patiently, somewhere inside the bus, before crawling forward in front of the growling mob. Flags fluttered and balloons bobbed, while the chorus of angry voices grew ever louder. Many of these belonged to Tibetans themselves, or to a sincere throng of woolly-hat wearers and Guardian readers. The bloke in front of me began booing anything and everything that passed. It was when he started deliberately booing a group of Chinese athletes that I started to feel distinctly uncomfortable. There's a thin line between rightful protest and naked racism, and I feared he'd crossed it. Thankfully he seemed to be in a deluded minority. I slunk off, past a Chinese protester being apprehended by the police. Doubly disappointing. When 2012 comes round, we shouldn't be surprised when the world turns round and spits back at us.
Here's how not to hold a successful public event. Invite everyone to turn up at noon, when the main event's at one. Don't erect a stage, just get your performers to dance around at ground level so that only a select few on the edge of the terrace can see what's going on. Pick a bloody cold day, preferably with snow, and then waste money by adding blue tickertape snow of your own. Get a white-haired ITN newscaster to wield the torch, then hide him inside a crowd of jogging minders so that onlookers are shielded from the one thing they've come to see. Watch the faces of the native Chinese community who are here to feel proud, and see their disappointment. And fill the square with branded advertising collateral, and attempt to hand it out to innocent spectators by pretending it's nothing more than a balloon or a flag. I was particularly disappointed by the flags. On the front a small "Beijing 2008" logo overshadowed by the big blue blob of the Korean "presenting partner", and on the rear a great big corporate logo on a featureless blue background. These shameless adverts were being handed out all along the route by opportunistic marketeers. I still have my unbranded 2004 torch relay flag. I recycled my 2008 flag immediately.
I thought I'd go and watch one of the set piece celebrations along the route. Not the great big multicultural spectacle on the South Bank, but the rather smaller affair inside Somerset House. I got there a bit too early, and had to stand around for half an hour in the courtyard feeling increasingly cold as yet another snow shower swirled around us. The crowd never grew too large, which we discovered later was because we'd been sealed inside behind closed iron gates. "Could you hold up the rope?" asked one of the insufficient security guards attempting to keep us well back. We declined. First into the makeshift arena, at last, came the Bollywood Brass Band. They were more Yorkshire fancy dress than Delhi realism, to be honest, but a rousing success all the same. And then 60 small schoolchildren filed out from the Seamen's Hall, jiggling up and down to keep themselves warm in the April chill. They were wearing waterproof red plastic capes, which are an essential fashion item when you're about to leap and dance amongst a courtyard filled with fountains. Unfortunately several of the children ran across the gushing jets and soaked the inside of their costume, while the lack of sleeves meant that most of their arm movements remained invisible. We loved the spectacle, however improvised the choreography, and the performers well deserved their final ovation. And finally the torch arrived, held high by a leggy blonde, hanging around for only a few seconds before continuing into the seething protests outside. But we at least, through the eyes of children, had seen the true Olympic message.
The good citizens of E3 appeared to have forgotten that the torch was passing through. But as four o'clock approached, and the buzz of helicopters filled the sky overhead, a few headed down to Bow Road to watch the flame go by. Many were of Chinese origin, here to watch a potent symbol from the motherland passing along their local street. The vicar was out with his camera, having set his bell ringers the task of welcoming the flame to Bow (or maybe he just pressed a button inside the tower, it was hard to be sure). And there were no protesters whatsoever, not this far out of town. What could go wrong? The road to the flyover suddenly cleared of traffic and a very large number of police motorbikes zoomed past. And a van, and another van, and the Coca Cola open-topped bus. Was the flame aboard? We didn't think so. Those grinning Samsung girls were next, keeping up their professional act as they danced for a crowd who almost certainly couldn't afford a widescreen telly like the one on the float. And then silence. Was that it?
10:30 Wembley: Actually, don't bother turning up here unless you're a Brent resident and you've got a ticket. The event's in Arena Square, and not inside the stadium where you might expect it to be. And could someone please teach the official Torch Relay website how to spell Harlesden? And then by bus (yes, bus) to...
13:00 Downing Street: Gordon Brown grits his teeth and welcomes envoys from another nation with a dismal human rights record, before the flame heads down to Westminster Pier and goes for a jolly jaunt on the Thames to
16:08 My house!! Blimey, it's the Olympic torch! Right outside my front door! The flame may be on its way to Beijing, via the world, but it has to go past my chicken nugget-strewn doorstep first. I am duly honoured.
Normally this interchange (3→9) can be made without ever using an escalator. A quick dash down the spiral staircase (from 3), a walk along a long passageway (to 7) and down some steps (9). Not any more. The spiral staircase is closed ("to avoid overcrowding") and there's only one exit from the Central line platforms (3). I had no choice - it had to be up the escalator and out through the barriers into the ticket hall (1). Not surprisingly, the ticket hall was quite crowded. Even more crowded was the unfit-for-purpose narrow passageway between the ticket hall (1) and the Lombard Street entrance (4). Then it was back through the barriers and a choice of routes back down into the depths. Either to wait for one of the four lifts (it's not exactly high capacity, this) or to walk 128 kneecap-numbing steps down the clunky 16-flight metal staircase. Phew. And after this very long up and down slog, where was I? In the big tiled chamber (7) just above the Northern line platforms (9). If only TfL had left the lower passageway open (3→7) I could have walked here in just a minute. But no, they sent me up an escalator, along an alleyway and down in a lift. Is it just me, or is this meandering detour actually serving only to increase congestion all around the station?
Coinage quiz: Britain's decimal coinage is changing. Over the next few months a brand new coin series will start trickling into your pocket, and the Royal Mint has just released the new designs. Ooh, that's quite a clever interpretation of the Royal Coat of Arms, isn't it? I rather like them. But how well do you know the old set of coins, in circulation since 1971? Test yourself by selecting the correct design for each coin, and then check your answers in the final drop-down box.
Hello my name is Trevor. When we think of London it is impossible to do without The Big Ben. This is a large tower built by the fair hand of Queen Victoria, and it sticks up in the middle of the city to be seen far and wide. The Big Ben is even taller than the Taj Mahal, and we all know how big that is. And The Big Ben is brown. Not many famous world towers are brown, so this makes it very special indeed. All the senators and lords who run the country live in The Big Ben, and they meet every day in a big room on the top floor to pass the laws of the land. Then at eleven o'clock precisely bong! The ringing of The Big Ben calls the royal horses from the stables for the Changing of Guard. Her Majesty Elizabeth stands on her balcony and decides which of her guards she wants to change. The losing ones have to go back to work as poor people, and the new ones win a furry hat.
Hello my name is Miriam. I know readers of the Geezer are always wondering where to have dinner. Well wonder no longer. There is a great restaurant in Bricklane and it is called the Taj Sahib. You cannot miss it. It's the one with two men standing outside inviting you urgently inside. Be welcomed to your seat with a warming naan, and rest your weary slippers. Two for one offers and special deals are always available at the Taj Sahib. Curry is a speciality, of course, and the balti is hot and spicy. And we have an excellent bonus for you. Just tell my cousin Jahar that you have seen this review on the Geezer and he will give you extra chapatis. And he will give me new bicycle if enough of you go, so please go.
Hello my name is Lionel. There is only one transport topic in the office this week and that is the terrible conditions at Vishwa Vidyalaya Underground Station. Honestly, do they think we're goats or something? The overcrowding is really severe, especially when Delhi University lectures finish and all the students come pouring out. Several people have been seen climbing onto the train roof, which is in direct contravention of Metro Rail Corporation regulations paragraph 14b. The situation on Line 2 is getting intolerable.
লন্ডনের দুটি দূরবর্তী বিন্দুর মধ্যবর্তী সর্বোচ্চ দূরত্ব প্রায় ৩০ মাইল। এর আয়তন ১৬১০ বর্গ কিমি (৬২০ বর্গ মা)। এই সুবৃহৎ শহরাঞ্চলটি ৩৩টি রাজনৈতিক এককে বিভক্ত। কেন্দ্রে অবস্থিত সিটি অফ লন্ডন ছাড়াও রয়েছে অধীনস্থ ৩২টি বরো। কেন্দ্রীয় অঞ্চলটিকে মধ্য লন্ডন নামে ডাকা হয় যার বেশির ভাগ অঞ্চলই টেম্স নদীর উত্তরে একটি মৃদুমন্দ ঢালু এলাকায় অবস্থিত। এই ঢালুটি আবার আরও উত্তর দিকে গিয়ে উঠতে শুরু করেছে। ৩৩টি রাজনৈতিক এককের মধ্যে ১২টিই এই মধ্যভাগে অবস্থিত যার মধ্যে রয়েছে সিটি অফ লন্ডন, সিটি অফ ওয়েস্টমিন্স্টার এবং পশ্চিম প্রান্তের জেলাসমূহ। সিটি অফ লন্ডন হচ্ছে লন্ডন শহরের প্রথাগত ও রাজনৈতিক কেন্দ্র আর সিটি অফ ওয়েস্টমিন্স্টার হল জাতীয় সরকারের দফ্তর ও মূল আসন। যতই প্রান্তের দিকে যাওয়া যায় জীবনযাত্রার উচ্চ মান ও চাকচিক্য ততই কমতে থাকে।
